<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>My Big Fat Celestial Wedding by raiining</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665090">My Big Fat Celestial Wedding</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining'>raiining</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Demon True Forms, Feather Exchange, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Post-Canon, Weddings, Weird Angel Rituals, Weird Demon Rituals, Wing Grooming</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:08:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,815</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665090</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well,” Gabriel says, “he might as well meet the whole family.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Dagon/Michael (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>463</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Rom Com Event</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>GORomCom has been so much fun! Huge hugs and cheers and thanks to everyone who organized, modded, participated, beta'd, commented, kudosed, and cheerleaded. You're all amazing! </p>
<p>This is a fic I would never have written without this event and would never have finished without a whole heap of people. Massive thanks to Tawny Owl and Muzakchan for beta'ing, Nied for cheerleading, and everyone on the Discord whose ever run a sprint with me. Thank you everyone!! </p>
<p>Muzakchan deserves extra-super thanks because they're helping me wrangle the last few thousand words out of this fic and getting it ready for posting. No set posting schedule but I hope to have it all up by next week! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Love to you all. Hope you read and enjoy! This is my GoRomCom take on <i>My Big Fat Greek Wedding</i> from 2002.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We should do something special tomorrow.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale looks up from the binding he’s been working on to smile at Crowley. “Oh? Why is that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley raises an eyebrow from across the room. He’s lounging on the couch in the bookshop. They’re often in the bookshop these days. They go to the park sometimes, or to a show, or to dinner and then to a show. Occasionally Crowley will leave to see to his plants or drive his Bentley about London, but he always comes back. Always. It fills Aziraphale with a quiet joy, a reverential delight, that he hasn’t gotten used to yet and quite frankly hopes he never does. Goodness knows they’ve suffered enough for it. No, it is still quite a new thing, to know that he can look up from whatever he is doing, and find Crowley there. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And indeed he does, and Crowley is smiling at him, and it is such a wonderful thing that Aziraphale smiles back. It takes him a moment to realize he knows the answer to his own question.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh!” he exclaims, glancing towards the front of the shop and the sunlight streaming in. Yes, of course, something special. It’s been quite warm again, hasn’t it? They’d had several months of cold winter, during which Aziraphale had made pots of cocoa laced with bourbon and they’d very rarely ventured outside. Things had warmed up again eventually, as they always did, and they’d had a long spring. Crowley had relaxed when it was finally summer. He did so love the heat, the serpent. They’d taken walking to St James’s Park almost daily for, goodness, several weeks now, hadn’t they? But it hadn’t turned cool yet, which meant— “Has it been a year already?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A year tomorrow,” Crowley says with a quirk of his lips. His sunglasses are on the table in front of him, something that’s been happening more and more lately, and with less alcoholic support. “Hard to believe.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, my goodness,” Aziraphale agrees. “We should absolutely do something special, my dear. What would you like?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley shrugs. “I dunno.” He leans back, still casual, though his eyes never lose their sparkle. He’s excited about this. “Something special, though.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Certainly,” Aziraphale agrees. He puts his tweezers down and turns his full attention to the project. Crowley deserves something wonderful. “A trip to the botanical gardens, perhaps?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s rewarded with a surprised look for his efforts. “Really? You’d go with me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve quite enjoyed a turn about gardens in my time. Besides, I wouldn’t let you spend the day alone, my dear.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley laughs. “Never that.” He’s still grinning, but the words are True. They ring slightly. It makes Aziraphale pause, but Crowley’s going on before he can think too much about it. “We could go on a picnic, after.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes. He claps his hands together. “That would be wonderful.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s settled then,” Crowley says. He’s still smiling. Oh, he’s as pretty as a postcard. “I’ll make sure the Bentley knows where she’s going.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She does, of course, and the day is perfect. Crowley drives at frankly ridiculous speeds, but is so clearly happy Aziraphale can’t bring himself to admonish him. Much. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The gardens are lovely, flush with their last burst of growth, a veritable rainbow of colours, and the few who are struggling seem to stand straighter under Crowley’s piercing eye. They spend several hours ambling about, Crowley pointing out particularly rare specimens, offering a grudging, “This one’s doing alright, I suppose,” a handful of times, which always makes the flower in question positively unfurl in delight.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Afterwards, they climb back into the Bently and drive to a picturesque spot Aziraphale remembers from the eighteen forties. It has a low hill, a river, a lovely little bridge, and an apple tree, all miraculously preserved. Crowley catches his eye and grins before laying the blanket out under the tree. Aziraphale gives in to a happy wiggle and joins him. They spread out their hamper — toast with jam, cream filled scones, meat pies, and fruit cordials — and enjoy the day. After, Crowley surprises him by lifting a<em> second </em>hamper from the boot. Aziraphale opens it to find brioche, mille feuille, and a selection of very good, very chilled French champagne. Underneath it all is a telescope. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My dear,” Aziraphale breathes. “You’ve outdone yourself.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Everything is delicious. They talk about everything and nothing, open the second bottle of champagne at twilight, and then lay under the stars for several hours, tracing the lines of the constellations and talking about how much things have changed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The drive back to London is done in silence, but it is the comfortable sort of silence of two very old beings who are very old friends. If Aziraphale has to resist the urge to reach over and take Crowley’s hand, then, well, that’s his own foolishness and no one else’s. The day has been perfect, he’s not going to ruin it by asking for more than Crowley can give.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Gives me a rash,” Crowley had said of holding hands, not looking at Aziraphale as he’d extracted his arm. They’d been walking out of the ground-level flat Crowley had been renting in Rome at the time. Not ten minutes before, Aziraphale had found one of Crowley’s feathers on the floor and had, blushing, tried to hand it back to him, only to have the demon grin and tell him to keep it. Aziraphale had tucked it away into the fold of his robe with shaking hands, unsure if Crowley had understood the meaning of what he’d offered and equally unsure if he had the capacity to ask.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’d thought holding hands would go some way to satisfy his confusion, and rather thought the demon’s refusal indicated his feelings on the matter. It didn’t stop him from insisting that Crowley accept one of his own feathers, however, several centuries later. Crowley had spent the night with his feet in a bath, cooling the burns he’d gotten after walking across consecrated ground to save Aziraphale paperwork, and he hadn’t been able to resist. “Please,” he’d even said, staring into Crowley’s eyes through the thick layer of his sunglasses. “As a thank you.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley had bitten his bottom lip but agreed. He’d tucked the feather away into the pocket of his suit and left, leaving Aziraphale to battle twins of guilt. The first, that he’d forced Crowley into reciprocation of a gift he likely didn’t understand the meaning of, and the second that Hell would somehow find out and punish Crowley for it anyway. It had made him rethink Crowley’s request for Holy Water, and in the end he’d accepted the inevitable and procured the stuff himself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale wants, suddenly, to ask Crowley if he understands now, if he gets the significance of exchanging feathers, if it might mean a fraction to him what it means to Aziraphale. He can’t, though. Instead, Aziraphale bites his lip and twists his hands together and hopes Crowley hasn’t noticed. He, too, has gone a little tense as the drive’s stretched on.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wine?” Aziraphale asks when the Bentley has pulled to a stop in front of the bookshop. It’s hard to see in the neon lights of Soho, but Crowley’s knuckles appear slightly white against the black leather of the steering wheel. It makes Aziraphale nervous. “Or I’ve got a lovely port I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For some reason, that makes Crowley smile. His hands relax slightly. “That’s my angel.” His voice is only slightly strained. “Ever the sweet tooth.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale tries not to preen too hard at the ‘my.’ They are that to each other, at least. “Yes, well, it has been how long, my dear? You do know me by now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’d think,” Crowley says, honesty in his voice. He turns to look at Aziraphale. “And yet.” The strain worsens, slightly. He has to stop and clear his throat. “Aziraphale — ” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale finds himself holding his breath and has to remind his corporation to breathe. “Yes, Crowley?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley’s eyes find his. He’d put his sunglasses on when they’d stepped into the sunshine and hasn’t taken them off yet. Aziraphale can’t quite see behind them in this light. “I — ” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The moment stretches. It pulls taut. And then it’s too late. Aziraphale feels it drifts away. He searches desperately for something — anything — to say, but he’s too slow, because Crowley is coughing and looking back at the steering wheel. “Port,” he says, in a thin sort of voice. “Port sounds good.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and then shakes himself. “Yes, well, of course. Please come in.” He doesn’t always say the words, rather implicitly feeling that Crowley will follow him into the bookshop, but in the flicker of the neon lights they feel important to articulate this time. “I’ll go find the bottle.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It doesn’t take him long. Aziraphale is just as organized with his wine as he is with his books, a system no customer understands but which he traverses with speed. Still, by the time he returns upstairs, Crowley has stretched out on the sofa. There’s ease in every line of his shoulders but his sunglasses remain on. Aziraphale tries not to look too much into that and pours for them both. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The port is quite good. He sets out some cheese and pieces of fruit for later, to complement it, and they pass the hours chatting. When the sun finally does come up, Crowley looks away from the now-empty plate and puts down his glass. “Uh, I better head into Mayfair today,” he says. “The plants’ll be getting restless.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale refuses to feel disappointed. They spent the entire day together. He’s being silly again. “Right. Er. Dinner, later?” It seems he just can’t help himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But Crowley smiles at him, a little of yesterday’s spark running along the corner of his lips. “I’d like that.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale can’t help but smile back. He never wants to deny Crowley anything, not anymore. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley nods and rises to his feet, not sure what to do with his hands for a moment before putting them into his pockets. The poor dear does forget what limbs are quite often. Silly old snake. “Ciao, angel.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Arrivederci, carissimo,” Aziraphale finishes, without thinking. Crowley stumbles slightly. Embarrassed, he starts to apologize, but the demon is already gone. “Oh,” Aziraphale says, staring at the door to his shop. “Well.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s nothing to be done about it now. Aziraphale flips the bookshop sign to Open and tries to go about his day. He dusts the shelves and deals with the few customers who come in, gently redirecting those who would spend money on quite the wrong book and pointing others to the local library. He does make one sale to an excited young woman with love in her eye, a volume of sapphic poetry. It’s a first edition by a new publisher (nineteen twenty is quite new in Aziraphale’s opinion) and he’s willing to part with it. He’s wrapping it up in brown paper while the young dear chatters excitedly when the bell over the door rings.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Be with you in a moment,” Aziraphale says, not looking up. He’s folding a blessing into the bow, to be released when undone. “There you go.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ugh, was that a miracle?” asks an unwelcome voice. “We’ve got to get you back to Heaven, Aziraphale. You’ve gone soft.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale sighs. Gabriel has been saying that to him for six thousand years. “You’re not welcome here.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The archangel tutts. “Honestly, Aziraphale, I thought we were past that.”  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale presses his lips together and hands the young woman her package. “All done. Best of luck to you, my dear.” The woman darts a look between him and Gabriel before mumbling something inaudible and hurrying to the door. Aziraphale waits until she’s gone before turning back to his former boss. “The last time I saw you, you tried to kill me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Eh,” Gabriel dismisses. “Forgiveness is encouraged by the Lord. You defied us, we tried to kill you — it evens out. You’re still family.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course. We’re here for you, Aziraphale. You can come home.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale cocks an eyebrow. “Home?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel spreads his hands. “Heaven, of course.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Heaven isn’t his home and hasn’t been for longer than Aziraphale would like to admit. “Why should I? I doubt very much that you miss me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel shrugs and walks up to the counter. “Maybe not, but either way, you’d still be welcomed back.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale frowns. “Really? Just like that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Just like that,” Gabriel confirms. His grin turns sly. “Of course, only<em> you </em>would be welcomed back. Your demon would have to wait outside the Gates.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, certainly,” Aziraphale says bitterly. “Forgiveness only goes so far, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel shrugs. “He rebelled.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And I didn’t?” Aziraphale challenges. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Aziraphale,” Gabriel chides. “You’re still an angel. That counts for something.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale presses his lips together. “I see.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m glad that you do,” Gabriel says magnanimously. “So what do you say? Shall we go?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No,” Aziraphale says firmly. “Earth is my home now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But Heaven is where you come from,” Gabriel pushes. “We’re the Host. We’re family.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Humans leave their families all the time,” Aziraphale points out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel’s eyes narrow. “You aren’t human.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale folds his hands together. “Even so.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel doesn’t move. “I see.” After a moment he sighs. “So you’re determined to continue this, then?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and then blinks. “Wait, continue what?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“This,” Gabriel says, waving a hand at the shop. “Playing at being human, staying on Earth.” He makes a face. “Cavorting with the Enemy.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah,” Aziraphale says, understanding. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Crowley. What did you<em> really </em>come here to discuss?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ugh,” Gabriel says, dramatically. “Fine.” He slumps against the counter. “Listen, Aziraphale, we’re worried about you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Worried?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes,” Gabriel says. “You won’t come home, you hang about with the enemy.” He peers at Aziraphale. “We know you’ve exchanged feathers. We did a little poking around after the incident with Armaggeddon.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You…” Aziraphale feels faint. “You what?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel waves a hand. “We were worried, like I said. And it’s been a year and a day since the Apocalypse. A year<em> and a day, </em>Aziraphale, and you’ve hardly been apart since. You know what that means.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale blinks. “I do?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel stares at him in disbelief. “Don’t tell me your time among the humans has whittled you down that much.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, of course not,” Aziraphale says automatically. It’s coming back to him now. A year and a day.<em> A year and a day. </em>“Oh, Good Lord,” he breathes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel nods. “Exactly. Feathers exchanged, a stance taken, and a year and a day.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says. “And you wanted me to come home, and I refused.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel grimaces. “You see my point.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I rather think I do.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale blinks. “So what?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel making a tumbling motion with his hand. “So are you determined to go through with it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, I…” Aziraphale struggles to find his words. “I hardly know. It’s not like we’ve discussed it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why not? Seven Hells, Aziraphale, you can’t let the demon take advantage.” He wags a finger. “Soft, just like I said.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, shut up,” Aziraphale snaps. “This is all rather sudden.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel looks confused. “It is?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale glares at him. “What does it matter to you, anyway? I’ve never been the model angel, you’ve been perfectly clear about that. Why the sudden interest?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel tries to look innocent. It doesn’t work. “Can’t we just be worried about you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale narrows his eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh fine,” Gabriel admits. “If you must know, there’s been talk.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course there has,” Aziraphale sighs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel shrugs. “You defected — rebelled, whatever — and worked against the path of Heaven. And you did it all without Falling. Not to mention, you suddenly gained an immunity to Hellfire. I don’t mind telling you it’s been quite the conundrum. Sandalphon thought we should work on turning you into salt. Thought you might not have a resistance against that.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh my,” Aziraphale breathes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel makes a face. “I was all for trying, at least, but then Michael made a rather good point the other day.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale isn’t sure he wants to know, and yet. “What point was that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That it must have been God who saved you. The only way you could have survived would have been if She intervened. Which means — by extension — that She agrees with you.” He grimaces. “Which means we don’t even get to debate Her decision, let alone try to get the War started again on our own.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh.” Aziraphale sits down quite abruptly. Good thing the chair from the backroom has suddenly appeared behind the counter. “You feel that my— that my resistance to Hellfire must be direct intervention from God?” His voice has gone quite thready. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel squints down at him. “Well, what else would it be?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Quite right,” Aziraphale says, struggling back to his feet. He sends the chair away with a thought. “Yes, well. So what does that mean, that God agrees with us?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel sighs. “That’s what we’ve been arguing about. And then we realized what time it was, and that it had been a year already, and that here you were, shacking up with a Demon.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale splutters.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And<em> then,” </em> Gabriel goes on, “Michael had another brilliant idea.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh no.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh yes. If you’d come home that’d be one thing, but if you insist on staying on Earth then we need a way to save face, smooth over hard feelings, and score points off of Hell.”  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale stares. “You can’t be serious.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel grins. “I am. Get your miracles ready, Aziraphale. You’re getting married!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two pots of tea, several rolls of biscuits, and a cherry scone later, Aziraphale is shaking his head on the couch in his backroom. “You can’t simply sweep all of this under the rug.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel squints at him. “What’s a rug? Nobody will be sweeping anything, that’s where the miracles come in. You won’t be getting married in a</span>
  <em>
    <span> barn — </span>
  </em>
  <span>we’ve tried cramming the entire Host of Heaven into a stable one time too many, in my opinion.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We are not having the entire Host of Heaven at my wedding,” Aziraphale says firmly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We absolutely are, that’s the entire point,” Gabriel insists. “Everyone needs to see. If you marry your demon under Heaven’s auspices this entire thing can be explained away. Rather than some rebellion against the Throne, this has been about two lonely hearts joined as one in lovey dovey holy matrimony.” He waves a hand. “Or somesuch.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You practice what you preach, I see,” Aziraphale says witheringly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel doesn’t give any indication that he’s heard. “Plus, if your demon is married to an angel, then he’s no longer the enemy, is he? In fact, he’ll be family. Which means he’ll be on the Roll Call.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale is glad he doesn’t need blood because he can feel it all drain from his face. “Oh my God.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly,” Gabriel says with a grin. “A clear victory for Heaven.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale has to put his head between his knees and close his eyes. “Oh dear.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“And,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gabriel goes on, excitedly, “his being on the Roll Call means he’d be off Hell’s Books, which Beelzebub is going to</span>
  <em>
    <span> hate.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That’s practically the entire point of this as far as I’m concerned.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale cracks open an eye to glare at his former boss. “I’m so glad our lives could be of service to you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” Gabriel says magnanimously. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sits up and takes another long drink of tea. “Okay,” he says, setting his cup back down, “I can see the opportunities for Heaven here. What I do not see are the opportunities for us. What would Crowley and I gain from this — ” he struggles to come up with another word and grimaces when he can’t — “</span>
  <em>
    <span>arrangement.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel affects a look of innocence that is as off-putting as it is ineffective. “You’ll be doing your duty to Heaven?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale glares. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh all right.” Gabriel waves a hand. “Agree to a wedding with all of the Host present and Heaven will formally agree to never bother you again.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale eyes him. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel shrugs. “Sure. We already agreed that was what we were going to do anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps,” Aziraphale says, “but now I want it in writing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel squirms. “I don’t think that’s— ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“In Holy Ink.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh,” Gabriel groans. “Fine.” He snaps his fingers and a piece of glittering parchment appears. “I’ll sign it right after the ceremony.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes the scroll and reads it. In archaic Enochian, it outlines a strict clause of non-interference, formally stating that Heaven can neither directly nor indirectly impact the day-to-day activities of the Principality Aziraphale or the Demon Crawley, nor work to impede their work on Earth. Aziraphale summons his own Holy instrument (after banishing the dust first; after all, he hasn’t Written anything in several decades. Once the AntiChrist had been born, Heaven preferred he deliver his reports in person) and corrects the spelling of Crowley’s name. He also adds a line that restricts Heaven from limiting his use of miracles and crosses out the ‘Principality’ from his title, ensuring that Heaven can’t simply demote him and then do as they see fit.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel grimaces but waves a hand to accept the changes. “You know none of this will apply to Hell, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s good thinking,” Aziraphale agrees, and adds ‘or Hell’ onto all clauses. He also extends the parchment to leave room for another signature at the bottom. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please,” Gabriel sneers. “You think it’ll be that easy to get them to agree?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale shrugs. “It was for you.” He rolls the parchment up and slips one of Crowley’s ribbons around it, then tucks it into his jacket. “I’ll just hold onto this, then.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel stares at him for a moment, then blinks and looks away, affecting a dismissive shrug. “You do that. Like I said, none of this is valid without the ceremony. I’ll be in touch about the details. You did get our latest communication update, didn’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale has to think. “Um.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel rolls his eyes and makes a gesture. A celestial-looking cell phone appears in his hands. “Here. It’s modelled after the latest human version. Internal Affairs are quite happy Armeggdon hasn’t happened, by the way, they say all the fun technological stuff is just getting started.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes the phone gingerly. It wakes at his touch, showing a background of white clouds against a blue sky. Well, he’ll have to change that. Maybe a nice stack of books? “I’m glad they appreciate human ingenuity. I rather miss the days of rotary phones, myself.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh, I don’t,” Gabriel says. “Couldn’t text on those. Anyways, the contacts page has been updated. I’ll send you the details about your official obligations tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll have a mutual discussion about them,” Aziraphale says firmly. He slips the phone into a pocket and stands to show Gabriel the door. “Till tomorrow, then.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The archangel rolls his eyes. “Yes, fine.” He puts down the tea — untouched — and straightens. “You know,” he says, peering down with those violet eyes Aziraphale hates so much, “you don’t have to go through with this. You can give all of this up and just come home.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale feels a pinch at the thought of Heaven, never mind that he doesn’t actually want to return. “What about your feud with Beelzebub?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel shrugs. “I’m already one up on them. If you come back, then this whole controversy thing,” he waves a hand, “would be over. It’s the easiest way out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale holds the idea of Heaven in his mind for a moment, and then lets it go. “No,” he says. “Earth is my home now. Even if I wanted to go back, which I don’t, I wouldn’t go alone. I’d go back with him or not at all.” He doesn’t even flinch when the words come out True.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel sighs but doesn’t argue. “I guess he’d be allowed after this, technically, though I can’t imagine why he’d want to.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale walks Gabriel through the shop. “We’ll discuss it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. Text me tomorrow.” He waits by the door until Aziraphale steps forward to open it, then flashes him a smile. Stepping through, he almost crashes into a familiar figure dragging his feet up the front steps.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Gabriel!” Crowley breathes, looking up and sounding stunned, eyes going wide behind his sunglasses. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh,” Gabriel says, peering down the steps at him. “Look at the stupid hair on top his head.” He turns to look over his shoulder at Aziraphale. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Aziraphale says firmly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel mutters something about recalcitrant angels and stalks off. Aziraphale is free to grasp Crowley by the shoulder and pull him into the shop. “Oh, my dear,” he says, torn between wanting to pull the demon close and hold him at arm’s length to get a better look at him. “What happened to you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened to me?” Crowley splutters, flailing as though his jacket isn’t singed and he isn’t scattering soot all over Aziraphale’s hardwood floors. His usually perfect hair is slightly flattened and crispy at the edges. “What happened to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rather a lot,” Aziraphale admits, hurrying to lead Crowley inside and back to the couch. He surrenders it gladly to the demon and banishes the remains of Gabriel’s tea with a thought. With a second, he brings the biscuits back and turns the kettle on for another go. “You first, though, my dear. You look as though you’ve been through the wars.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing like that,” Crowley says, collapsing onto the couch. “Just had a little run-in with an old friend.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says, wringing his hands. “Hastur again?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Crowley exhales. He sounds exhausted. “He won’t stop trying to kill me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale frets. He</span>
  <em>
    <span> really </span>
  </em>
  <span>shouldn’t have let Crowley go off alone today. Hastur, a Duke of Hell, is objectively much more powerful than his demon, but of course he believes Crowley is immune to Holy Water and so has settled for mostly trying to discorporate him whenever he gets the chance. Aziraphale had thought his attempt less than a fortnight ago would be it for a while, but it appears Hastur had other plans.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Crowley says, though it’s clearly not. “It’s not like I can do anything to make him stop, anyway. Usually I’d go to Beelzebub, but now — ” He grimaces.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, they’d rather cheer him on, wouldn’t they,” Aziraphale agrees. He pushes the biscuits closer to Crowley and takes his seat on the wing-back chair, feeling his jacket shift as he does so. It reminds him of the parchment and — oh! Of course! Aziraphale sits up straighter. “That’s it!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley raises his head a little. He still has his sunglasses on, the poor dear. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale pulls the parchment from his pocket and summons his Holy Instrument again, careful not to let the ink get anywhere near Crowley. “We can add in a clause about Hastur, as well.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Crowley asks. He shifts so that he’s sitting up on the couch. “Is that one of my ribbons? What is — ?” He goes still as Aziraphale unfurls the scroll and begins to make notes on the parchment. “That smells like Heaven, angel. What the fuck?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, right,” Aziraphale says, putting down his Quill and looking over at Crowley. His demon is looking quite petrified. “I’m sorry, my dear. Gabriel dropped it off. It was quite a shock to me as well, but, er — ” He remembers what the archangel had said about the two of them and twitches. “Well. It’s an unusual situation but one we might be able to leverage quite strongly in our advantage.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley doesn’t say anything while Aziraphale explains. He sits still for a long time after, as well, making Aziraphale rather nervous. “Darling,” he says finally, unable to resist reaching out and then realizing half-way through that the motion might not be appreciated. “Say something?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley makes a strangled sound. “Heaven,” he says finally, “thinks we want to get</span>
  <em>
    <span> married?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale fidgets. “Yes, well,” he says, unsure as to what to do with his hands. He finally draws them back into his lap, at which point they start twisting together. “A year and a day, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I — ” Crowley starts. He cuts himself off. “I</span>
  <em>
    <span> don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>know, actually. Demon, remember?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Airaphale says miserably. “Well.” He can’t seem to meet Crowley’s eyes. “I’m not sure how much you remember of Heaven, my dear, but things became rather more — formalized — after the War. Marriage, the choosing of mates…” He clears his throat. “It was, er, decided that allowing things like that willy nilly might have pushed more angels towards questioning God.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s lip curls. “Rather think there was more to it than that, angel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale presses his lips together. “Yes, well. A set of steps became custom, to ensure that the couple — or trio, of course, or more — fit well together and had the approval of Heaven.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley looks confused. “What does that have to do with the two of us?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale fidgets. “Well. Er. Gabriel admitted that they’ve been doing some poking around since I defected and they — ” he steels himself “ — they found the feather you gave me in Rome.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It seems to take Crowley a beat to remember. He’s still for a long moment, at least, and then he blurts, “You still have that?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale wants to tuck himself into a ball and wave a hand to make himself invisible. “Yes. Well.” He clears his throat. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Crowley says. He sounds stunned.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Er,” Aziraphale goes on, managing to look everywhere except at Crowley, “and then there’s the fact that we’ve been spending rather a lot of time together post Apocalypse. And the fact it’s been a year and a day since the event, which is the traditional amount of time for a courting couple.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ngk,” Crowley says. “Er. Ah. Okay? And you didn’t set them straight?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was going to,” Aziraphale promises. “Really, I was, but Gabriel seemed so insistent that I realized he must have an ulterior motive.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Crowley groans.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rather,” Aziraphale agrees, and goes on to explain Gabriel’s reasoning. When he’s done he holds open the scroll. Crowley leans forward to read it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” Crowley says, “this is all a plot to silence questions and score points off Hell?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Aziraphale says bitterly. “Isn’t everything?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait a minute, angel did you read this? They want me to become one of the Holy Host!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Only officially, my dear,” Aziraphale frets. “You’d— you’d be welcome back in Heaven, too, but not as an angel. You’re still a demon, of course. They can’t take that away from you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s face twists. “Of course.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale apologizes. He can feel himself start to crumple. “Of course you’re right, I should have set the record straight immediately. I shouldn’t have even agreed to consider it. I don’t know what I was thinking.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley pushes his sunglasses up to rub at his eyes. “What</span>
  <em>
    <span> were </span>
  </em>
  <span>you thinking, angel?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was thinking — I was thinking — oh, it doesn’t matter.” Aziraphale drops his face into his hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking. We’re an angel and a demon. I should have remembered that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Woah, hey,” Crowley interrupts. He drops his hand and reaches over. “What does that have to do with anything? We’re both supernatural creatures. We’re not different species, we’re just — ” His mouth moves for a moment but no words come out. He stops and looks down, and then puts his hand on Aziraphale’s twisting fingers. “You were trying to protect us. I get that.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Aziraphale says, staring down at Crowley’s hand. It’s warm. “I should have consulted with you first.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it?” Crowley asks. He squeezes slightly. “You’re consulting with me. We’re talking about it. You told him you’d get back to him about the whole idea later, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I did,” Aziraphale admits. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, then,” Crowley says, “so we’ve got some time.” He swallows audibly and opens his fingers. When Aziraphale hesitantly begins to copy him, Crowley turns his wrist and presses their palms together, tangling their fingers. “I’m— I’m not against the idea of marrying you, you know,” Crowley says, clearing his throat. “You’re my best friend. I’d do anything to keep you safe.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks up at him. “I know, my dear,” he whispers. “I’d do anything for you, too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“See?” Crowley says, quirking his lips. “We’re on the same page here.” He gestures to the parchment with the hand not holding Aziraphale’s. “This is actually fairly devious. I have to say, I’m impressed. I didn’t think Gabriel had it in him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale huffs out a laugh. “I actually think Michael had a fair hand in it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That makes more sense then,” Crowley teases. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. “Beelzebub’s going to hate that Heaven thought of it first.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You think they’ll agree?” Aziraphale asks, surprised. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley makes a face. “Eh, they won’t be happy about the Holy Host thing, but to be honest neither am I. I think Beelzebub’ll be able to think of a way out of it. The rest of it, though, blaming the entire thing on the two of us trying to save each other instead of save the world, they’ll get that. They can use that. More propaganda to write on the walls.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale makes a face. “I detest those walls.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you think Hell has them?” Crowley asks dryly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale sighs. He looks over the parchment. “So you think they’ll sign? Blame us to avoid questions and score points?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley chuckles. “Yeah.” He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. “Not so different after all, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale manages a smile. “Right. What about the extra clause involving Hastur?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley scratches his head, dislodging some of the charred crips. “I think it’s doable. We can change the wording a little, make it less like we’re singling him out. Something to the effect of ‘no being from Heaven or Hell’ yadda yadda. But it could work.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope so,” Aziraphale says. He squeezes back. “I would be ever so relieved if it did. I hate the thought of Hastur trying to discorporate you for the rest of eternity.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley gives him a faint smile. “I know you do, angel.” He waves a hand. “So, uh, what’s next, then? If we’re going to do this? We, you know, did the whole feather thing, and it’s been a year and a day or whatnot. What’s next?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Aziraphale says, blushing. “Yes, well. Um. We don’t particularly</span>
  <em>
    <span> have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do anything, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley gives him a patient smile. “Yeah, I get that, but you said ‘formalized steps,’ which means it’s more than one thing. What’s next on the Courting List of Heaven, angel?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale swallows. “Ah. Well. Er. Next we would exchange second feathers. Usually after,” he finds himself stuttering, “a- after grooming each other first.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ngk,” Crowley says. He sucks in a breath. “Is — I mean — That’s a thing you do, then? In Heaven?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Or, well,” he coughs, embarrassed, “other angels do, at least. I haven’t been back in some time, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Crowley says. His voice is slightly high. “I haven’t — um, I mean. We don’t. So much. In Hell.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s turning a rather alarming shade of red. “No, Satan. Can you imagine me grooming Hastur?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh goodness no,” Aziraphale laughs. “You wouldn’t, anyway. Grooming is reserved for very good friends. Or, er,” he darts a glance at Crowley, “courting angels.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah,” Crowley says. He seems to want to say something more — his mouth moves — but no sound comes out. After a moment he shakes his head. “Right. So. Um.” He looks down and seems to realize he’s still holding Aziraphale’s hand. He drops it onto the table and rubs his palm on his pants. “So how do we do this, then?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale tries not to feel disappointed. After all, he’ll be doing much more than just holding hands with Crowley in a moment. “Well,” he starts. “There are some formal words.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Crowley says. He looks nervous. “‘Course.”  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sits up a little straighter. “Demon Crowley,” he says in his best Principality voice, “would you do me the formal honour of allowing me to see to your wings, and you to mine, and exchange feathers with me afterwards?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Crowley says, staring at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale waits, heart in his throat. After a moment he coughs. “Well?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes!” Crowley nearly shouts. “I mean, yes,” he says again, in a more normal tone of voice. “If you want to, that is. Sure. Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale can’t help but grin. “Yes, my dear, I want to.” He lets go of Crowley’s hands and sits up. “Besides, it is rather expected of us, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Crowley says. “Course.” He looks over his shoulder at the place where his wings would be. “Um, how do we —?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Like this,” Aziraphale says, and sits back slightly. He’ll need the room. “I’ll go first.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t take more than a thought. It’s always rather a constraining thing, keeping his wings winched in, though it’s a feeling he’s gotten used to over the last six thousand years. Still, it’s a relief to release them. He folds open a sister dimension and</span>
  <em>
    <span> oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>does that feel good.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nuugh,” Crowley says, staring. After a moment he seems to shake himself and sit up. “Right. Uh.” He gives a little shiver and — Aziraphale catches his breath — his own wings spill open behind him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale can’t help but whisper. He reaches forward on instinct, stops himself, and holds his hand out about a foot from Crowley’s luxurious looking black feathers. “I mean — ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley quirks him a smile. “Might as well go ahead,” he says. “‘S why we’re doing this after all, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Aziraphale says, taking a moment to get control of himself. “Well.” He swallows and crosses the final distance. “Ah,” he can’t help but gasp, his fingers sinking into Crowley’s plumage. “My dear.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s gone slightly tense under his hand. “It doesn’t — ” he seems to catch himself, makes an effort to sound less unsure, “ — doesn’t hurt you, does it? Doesn’t burn or somesuch?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, darling, not at all,” Aziraphale says, carding his fingers through the lovely silken feel of Crowley’s primaries. “It feels marvelous.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Crowley says, and his shoulders unclench slightly. “Good.” His neck rolls. “Wow, that really does feel good.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale chuckles. “Yes, it does.” He brushes a hand down Crowley’s plumage, thrilled that he’s finally able to do this. “Um, your wings are in quite good shape, my dear. Primaries and secondaries all in line. There are a few here out of place,” he touches some lightly near the middle of Crowley’s back, where it’s clear he couldn’t reach. “I’ll just get these, shall I?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley shivers as Aziraphale adjusts the few feathers that need altering. “Good idea, angel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, darling.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes his time, reaching inside for the powder down and drawing it back. The down is glossy black, an unearthly colour, and so rich it’s oil moistens Aziraphale’s fingertips. It tingles slightly — there’s the faintest smell of brimstone — but it’s not any hotter than the peppers Aziraphale enjoys on a good strong penne. He spreads it carefully over Crowley’s plumage, adjusting feathers as he goes. He pauses once the offending few have been put to right, but Crowley doesn’t stop him, he’s actually leaning forward over the back of the couch, seemingly almost asleep, the poor dear. Aziraphale gives into his baser urges and keeps going, spreading down on the immaculate feathers of Crowley’s wider wings, adjusting primaries and secondaries that are already in perfect order. It feels wonderfully intimate. He could do this for hours, just tend to Crowley, have an excuse to put his hands on him, but sooner or later he is going to have to stop. He chooses to do so on his own terms, before Crowley can become uncomfortable and ask him to. “Darling,” he says, taking his hands off Crowley’s wings and putting a palm instead on his shoulder. “I’m all done.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ngh?” Crowley asks. He lifts his head from the back of the couch, shifting his wings as he does, and then pausing and shifting them again. “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly worried that he’d done something wrong. Had he hurt Crowley? “What is it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Crowley says, looking away with a blush. “They just feel different, that’s all. Better,” he clarifies, darting a glance at Aziraphale and obviously seeing how pale he’s gone. “They feel better, angel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh good,” Aziraphale says, sighing with relief. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh,” Crowley says, rolling his shoulders. “Is there a particular feather traditionally used for this?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and it’s his turn to blush. “Yes, secondaries.” He clears his throat. “Primaries are used during the ceremony.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley smiles. “I guess that makes sense.” He ruffles a wing in Aziraphale’s direction. “Do you pluck one or do I offer?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You offer,” Aziraphale can’t help but whisper. Is this really…?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, then,” Crowley says. He reaches back and rummages, a look of intense concentration on his face. After a moment he makes a short, sharp movement, and a wince of pain crosses his face. He turns and offers Aziraphale a feather.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes it with a gasp. Crowley has pulled not just a secondary but one that had been attached to a blood shaft. A drop of ichor clings to the base. “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley looks suddenly anxious. “Is that okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale whispers. He can’t bring himself to say that a blood feather holds extra meaning. It’s not a casual exchange, this. Not that it was ever going to be, after a grooming, but — “Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Anything for you, angel,” Crowley says. The words are True again. Aziraphale waits for Crowley to add a caveat, but he doesn’t. After a moment, he gestures to Aziraphale’s wings. “Is it my turn now?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale says, turning quickly. He holds himself steady, waiting, and then practically melts at the glorious feeling of Crowley’s fingers running over his wings.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Oh.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Crowley whispers. “Wow.” Aziraphale can feel him working, straightening feathers and combing out the down. It takes him far longer than it had Aziraphale. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Aziraphale says, embarrassed again. “I haven’t been seeing to myself much lately.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not a problem, angel,” Crowley says, stroking one hand down what must have been a particularly ill-sitting primary. Having it righted sends a shiver of delight through Aziraphale’s form. “You’ve got me to see to you now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The double-entendre makes Aziraphale blush. After a second Crowley seems to realize what he’s said. “Uh,” he sputters. “I mean, that is — ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale chuckles through his embarrassment and reaches back to grasp Crowley’s hand. “I appreciate that, my dear.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In the end he chooses a blood feather as well. He can’t very well give Crowley a lesser gift, and it’s a symbol he wants to equal in full. Crowley takes the feather with wide, wondering eyes. “Thank you, angel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, darling,” Aziraphale says, taking the father back briefly to thread it through the button hole in Crowley’s jacket. There had been a button hole there a second ago hadn’t there? Ah well. “There you go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually,” Crowley says, and colours again. “I, um, might have something better. Back at my flat?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“For what, my dear?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, er, I’ll just — ” Crowley makes a waggling motion with his fingers, and then suddenly there’s an elegant broach sitting in his hand. “Here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale feels his heart melt into a puddle inside his corporation. “Oh,</span>
  <em>
    <span> Crowley.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The broach is a beautifully intricate gold design, such as had been quite the style six — or was it sixteen? — hundred years ago. Clasped in the centre of it, held carefully between two of the delicate pieces, is the feather Aziraphale had pressed into his hand after his rescue. “You kept it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Course I did,” Crowley says, looking uncomfortable. “It was from you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yes but I — ” Aziraphale doesn’t know how to say that he’d expected Crowley had tucked it away somewhere and forgotten about it. “In that case, I’d better, er, retrieve mine then, hadn’t I?” He blushes and avoids Crowley’s eye as he crosses the shop to the small safe that sits behind the counter. He didn’t keep money in it, of course, or any other worldly goods. He keeps instead things that are much more precious. His first commendation from Heaven, the cup he and Crowley had shared aboard Noah’s cramped and smelly Ark, the tablet he’d gotten in Pompeii. There is also, in pride of place in the centre, Crowley’s feather. Knowing Heaven has been looking through his things makes him itchy, but it is always a joy to hold Crowley’s feather and it still is. He picks it up carefully and carries it back to the couch. “I, er, didn’t make it into jewelry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not a problem, angel,” Crowley says. His eyes seem to have caught on the feather and stayed there. Aziraphale frets. Can Crowley somehow see all the times Aziraphale’s held it? Brushed it against his face? Crowley clears his throat and looks away. “Anyways. It’s not like I wore it around, or anything.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then why did you fold it so wonderfully into a broach, my dear?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley mumbles something inaudible. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What was that?” Aziraphale asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley clears his throat. “I said, I didn’t think I’d ever have the chance to. But, ah, we’re going to now, aren’t we?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles. “Yes, we are.” He closes his eyes and thinks for a second, and then miracles himself a duplicate of Crowley’s broach, except his is done in fine worked silver. He slips the first feather Crowley had given him inside — a tertiary, how suddenly fitting — and adds the second alongside it. He proudly pins the broach to his coat when he’s done, declaring to all the world that they’re courting. Or, at least, all the angels. “There.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s eyes look wide behind the obscuring glaze of his sunglasses. “That, that looks perfect, angel.” He quickly slides Aziraphale’s secondary into place and pins the gold broach to his own jacket. “Now we match.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale stares at him. He thinks — quite self-centeredly — that the white of his feathers look particularly good against Crowley’s customary dark clothing, but can’t very well say it. “Wonderful. Well, I think the only thing left to do today is somehow rope Hell into this as well.” He looks at Crowley. “Do you have any ideas, my dear?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually,” Crowley says with a slow grin. “I do. What do you say to a walk, angel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They go to St James’s Park. It worked out well for them before, after all. They stroll along the duck pond, buy ice cream from the vendor, and stop to listen to a band performing on the grass. All in all, it doesn’t take long for Hastur to walk up towards them with a sneer. “You’re busted now, Crowley.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hastur!” Crowley says, turning to grin at him widely. “Back for more already, are you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur glares. “You talk big, but you’ve had it. Everyone knows. I’ve already told Dagon, and she’ll tell Beezelbub, and<em> then </em>you’re going to get it, you’ll see.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hastur,” Crowley says, “listen, just because you want to be a big bad demon, doesn’t mean you need to keep coming to me for advice. Follow your heart, old chum. Listen to the… amphibian… like… snail inside of you.” He claps Hastur on the arm. “I believe in you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur snarls. It looks for a moment like he’s going to launch himself at Crowley and Aziraphale tenses. Despite his blustering, his demon has already had quite enough of that today. There’s a stirring of dirt at Hastur’s feet, though, and then the familiar figure of Beelzebub rises from the earth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Crowley,” Beelzebub drawls. They have somehow managed to create a glare that is both furious and can’t be bothered all at once. It’s quite the skill. “What the Heaven do you think you’re playing at?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Beeze,” Crowley says with another one of his wide grins. “Whatever do you mean?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub lifts an unimpressed but still angry eyebrow in Aziraphale’s direction. “Hanging about with an angel. Living with one.” She grimaces at his broach. “Wearing one of its feathers. It’s disgusting.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Two feathers,” Crowley corrects, throwing an arm around Aziraphale and pulling him close. “Haven’t you heard?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub’s eyes narrow. Hastur steps forward. “Heard what?” he growls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley throws him a surprised look. “Oh, you haven’t? I thought you were still spying on Heaven, getting all their good stuff.” He shrugs. “Looks like I was wrong.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur growls. “Crowley…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley throws him a grin. “Quite the coup Gabriel’s done with this. I have to hand it to him, really.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A flicker of some emotion Aziraphale can’t name passes over Beelzebub’s face. “Gabriel?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Crowley breezes. “Who would’ve thought?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Gabriel’s an idiot,” Hastur snarls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley shrugs. “Well he’s going to be my in-law, so I suppose I shouldn’t agree with you, but he really, really is.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He’s what?” Beelzebub growls. There’s real anger in their voice this time. Aziraphale winces.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley flashes them a grin like he’s won some point in a game. Maybe he has. “In-law might be the wrong term. In-boss? In-supervisor?” He turns to Aziraphale and makes a face. “Doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale tutts. He’s quite intimidated, standing on the lawn in front of both a Prince of Hell and a Duke, but he’s done it before, hasn’t he? And in Hell no less. “I for one have never considered Gabriel a father figure.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley makes a face. “Yeah, that’d be pretty disgusting. Like having Beeze here for a parent. Ghah.” He shoots a look at Beelzebub. “Don’t think you’d got for that, either.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m going to discorporate you within the next thirty seconds if you don’t explain,” Beelzebub says. Their voice has gone deadpan again, but there’s real menace beneath it. “One, two — ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Alright!” Crowley says, lifting both of his hands. “Though you’d better enjoy the privilege while you can, it’ll be harder to get your hands on me once I’m welcomed back into the Host.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur’s black eyes flare wide. “You’re going to<em> Ascend?” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley shudders. “Ugh, God, no. I’m going to get<em> married.” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub stares. “You’re what?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley grins and pulls Aziraphale tight again. “Shacked up. Tie the knot. You know,” his voice lowers. <em> “Mated.”  </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“With an<em> angel?” </em>Hastur spits. “That’s disgusting!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey!” Crowley snarls, real anger in his voice now. “That’s my angel you’re talking about.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Darling,” Aziraphale says, placing a hand on his arm. He offers Hastur a thin smile. “Don’t let their words bother you. After all, you won’t be a designate of Hell much longer.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Right,” Crowley says, shaking off his glare. He throws Beelzebub a toothed smile. “What’s the matter, boss? Thought you’d be glad to be rid of me. Haven’t you been looking to pop me off for some time?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We’d be more than glad to be rid of you,” Hastur sneers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub cuffs him on the back of the head. “You idiot,” they sneer. “Not if it means Heaven gets him. Then they’ve got one more angel against us in the War.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur shoots Crowley a smile full of teeth. “Fine by me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m not going to be an angel,” Crowley points out. “Still a demon. Just on the Roll Call, as it were.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s ridiculous,” Beelzebub snarls. “You can’t be serious about this. You’re a member of Hell, Crowley.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley smirks. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. You lot keep trying to kill me after all.” He throws Hastur a dirty look.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub looks like they’ve swallowed a live fish. Or maybe a dead one. Aziraphale’s not sure which a Prince of Hell would prefer. “We could ensure such activities stopped, of course.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur looks over at his boss, betrayed<em> . “Beelzebub.” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s<em> Prince </em>Beelzebub to you,” Beelzebub growls. They turn back to Crowley. “There’s no need to go through with such an exchange.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, I think there’s every need,” Crowley purrs. “You see, Heaven isn’t just offering to stop trying to kill us. They’re throwing in unlimited miracles and a complete hands-off promise. Show ‘em, angel.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale pulls out the scroll he’d tucked away. Hastur recoils at the sight of it but Beezlebub snatches it out of the air. “Give me that.” The moment their hand touches the parchment, the left half of it darkens to a charred black and the words turn molten, wavering until the gold of Heaven is replaced by something that looks remarkably like blood. “Ugh. You weren’t lying.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nope,” Crowley says, popping the ‘p.’ “It’s all there. To be signed by Gabriel himself after the ceremony.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And what ceremony is this?” Beelzebub asks. Hastur is still reading the parchment, horror in every line of his face.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A mating ceremony,” Crowley says earnestly, “and a welcome back into the Family of God.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub glares. “What are you going for here, Crowley?” They wave the parchment around. Some of the left hand side flakes off and burns a patch of grass at their feet. “I know you. You’re not trying to brag, you’re here to work a deal.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley grins. “Who me?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur growls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Alright,” Crowley says, putting up a hand. “Fine.” His face goes hard. “I want you to sign it, too. I want you to agree to everything Heaven does. No more trying to kill us, or discorporate me.” He shoots a look at Hastur. “I want you to promise not to do anything stupid like try to limit my miracles. Most of all I want you to stay away from Aziraphale and me and I want it in writing.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub looks like that fish is flopping around inside of them. “And in exchange?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I won’t join the Holy Host.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub narrows their eyes. “But you’ll go through with the mating?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley shrugs. “Of course.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No,” Beelzebub says calmly, surprising Aziraphale and — if his raised eyebrows are any indication — Crowley, too. “I know Gabriel’s lot, that’ll be enough for them to claim you as their own on the account sheets. How about this, I’ll sign this when you,” they make a face, <em> “mate </em>with the angel, after which he’ll become a designate of Hell.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?” Aziraphale asks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?” Hastur demands.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Over my dead body,” Crowley snarls. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub grins suddenly. “Well, we tried that,” they say. “Didn’t take.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re not dragging him to Hell,” Crowley growls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub rolls their eyes. “Of course not, just like Gabriel won’t actually ascend you to Heaven. You’ll both stay on Earth, unmolested and left alone.” They raise an eyebrow. “Which is what you wanted.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley doesn’t deny it, but he narrows his eyes. “What’s in it for you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub lifts an eyebrow. “I get to say you’ve been utterly corrupted by an angel, no wonder you went rogue. I get Azira-whatever his name is in Hell’s Books, which keeps us even with Heaven so far as numbers are concerned, and best of all I get to rub it in Gabriel’s face that he tried to one over us and failed.” They grin. “Take your pick.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“His name’s Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub narrows their eyes. “Is it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s arm. He couldn’t care less about his name. “And you’ll leave us alone?” He shoots a glare at Hastur. “You’ll sign?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We’ll leave you alone,” Beelzebub promises, “and I’ll sign.” Their eyes narrow. “But<em> not </em>on the same line as Gabriel.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course not,” Aziraphale says. He takes the scroll back and rolls it up, careful not to touch the half that’s been corrupted. “You’ll sign underneath, of course.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub shifts their expression towards him. After a moment they nod. “Right.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley doesn’t seem convinced. He shoots an anxious look at Aziraphale. “You’re alright with this?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course,” Aziraphale assures him. “It seems only fair.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“‘Fair,’” Hastur sneers. “What kind of an angel is he?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The best kind,” Crowley snaps. He looks back to Beelzebub. “After the ceremony, then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“About that,” Beelzebub says. “We will, of course, want half the responsibilities of designing it. It wouldn’t do for a designant of Hell to be married in<em> Heaven, </em>of all things.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course not,” Crowley grumbles. “What exactly do you have in mind?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why, Crowley,” Beelzebub says, blinking their eyes at him. “Don’t you want to go traditional?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What’s traditional?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly curious. “You have traditions?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course we do,” Beelzebub growls. “Hell has its own culture, after all.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale glances at Crowley, who’s avoiding his eye. “I… wasn’t aware of that, sorry.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur sneers but Beelzebub waves a hand. “‘Course you weren’t. We’ll update you on the specifics. Not a<em> full </em>ceremony, of course,” they say, glancing at Crowley. “We’ll tone it down for Heaven’s delicate sensibilities.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We’ll talk about it,” Crowley snaps. “Nothing’s decided yet.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course,” Beelzebub says with a shrug. “I’ll text you.” They snap their fingers and Crowley hisses. He snatches his cellphone from his pocket and blows on it to cool it down. There’s now a Hellfire inscribed circle on the back. “You have our latest communication app update?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley glares down at the screen. “I do now, it seems.” He slides the cellphone back into his pocket. “You guys finally decide the whole talking through the radio thing was getting old?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur sneers. “Didn’t want you to be able to hang up on us any more.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley smirks. “Only on you, Hastur.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub smiles sickeningly sweet at Aziraphale. “Of course, formal introductions will be the first thing on the agenda. You’ll allow us to host you for dinner, I presume?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley snarls. “Dinner isn’t part of Hell’s traditions.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub waves a hand. “It’s a human thing, I’m given to understand. It’ll be the perfect place to talk about the ceremony. I’ll bring the scrapbook.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh<em> Satan, </em>” Crowley curses.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale confesses he is both confused and curious. “Scrapbook?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub grins. It’s such a sudden and terrifying sight that Aziraphale actually takes a step back. “Oh yes. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to rub Heaven’s face into the entire sordid<em> whole </em>of it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh no,” Aziraphale exhales.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh yes.” Beelzebub gives them each a nod. “Until next week, then. I’ll text you the details, Crowley.” With that, dirt begins to crumble underneath their feet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wait,” Hastur says, stepping forward. “You really mean to go through with this? I’ll have to — stop? After everything he did?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Get in the fucking ground, Hastur,” Beelzebub sighs. They start to descend.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But —!” Hastur starts. He doesn’t get very far before Beelzebub reaches over and grabs his ankle. They start dragging him down. “Mmmphhm!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley waits until they’re finally gone, then slumps. “Shit,” he says. He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m so sorry, angel, I didn’t think— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“None of that,” Aziraphale says lightly. He puts his hand on Crowley’s arm. “We’ve agreed to this, haven’t we? We should have recognized that Hell would want their due.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, but — ” Crowley starts.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s just dinner,” Aziraphale says firmly, cutting him off. “I can handle it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t handle it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale does his best to keep his eyes only on his feet in front of him. It’s a trick that worked the last time he walked into Hell, except the last time he was wearing Crowley’s body (and oh, hadn’t that been nice?) with his wonderful sunglasses on. Aziraphale had never truly understood what a comfort the shades could be until he’d had to keep his expression controlled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At least this time no one expects him to be comfortable. The main entrance is the same as it ever was, full of gleaming escalators running up and down, but this time Dagon is waiting for them. “Demon Crowley, Principality Aziraphale,” she greets with an alligator grin. “Know that you are expected and welcomed into Hell.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, yes, well, er,” Aziraphale tries. Crowley just twitches. Dagon ignores them both and goes on, with a glance over her shoulder to the upstairs elevator as a clue that her speech isn’t actually for their benefit.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Since no angel can simply descend into Hell, to permit you entrance, I present, on behalf of Prince Beelzebub, this trophy.” She holds out a charred ribbon. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale feels his eyes go wide at the sight of it. It’s an old design, a peace-offering, clearly a gift from Heaven, but one that’s been corrupted. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Given to Lucifer Morningstar himself,” Dagon goes on, “it was used by Heaven as a ruse to attack us from behind. So corrupted, it turned to ash in Satan’s hand, but by His power was restored. It carries enough betrayal now to allow an angel to sink into Hell.” She grins. “That is, until you’re officially on the Books, then you’ll be able to come and go as you please.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I— ” Aziraphale starts, but doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to go into Hell, but of course he has to. The ribbon feels like it’s already trying to drag him down. It doesn’t hurt, necessarily, but it feels like a weight on his chest. The story can’t be true though, can it? There’s no way that Heaven would have— </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Except Crowley isn’t arguing or rolling his eyes or saying anything, really. He’s just shooting anxious glances at the upstairs escalator and walking with the extra roll in his step that means he isn’t half so confident as he wants to appear. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, already unsure if he wants an answer. “Is this really— ?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh?” Crowley asks. His gaze darts back to Aziraphale. “You want to go?” He reaches for Aziraphale’s arm. “You’re right, we should go. Hey, Dagon, we’ve got to— ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Aziraphale protests, pulling his arm out of Crowley’s grip. “No, I can do this.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Crowley asks. The poor thing. He’s so tense his shoulders are vibrating. “You don’t have to.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m sure,” Aziraphale assures him. He’s doing this for Crowley, after all. That makes it worthwhile. “I’m fine.” He summons a smile and ushers Dagon onward. “Lead on please, er, Dagon. Lead the way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He manages to hold it together until they get to the water. Usually Aziraphale simply walks across, sure in his place, and makes it to the upstairs escalator. The last time, he’d been tied up in a sack and so afraid for Crowley he’d been nearly sick. This time, he has to step forward of his own accord and feel himself start to sink. It’s terrible. He instinctively panics, trying to lift his feet above the water, calling out in his soul for Her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon snaps at him. “Stop that!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Aziraphale asks wildly, frantically trying to ascend, and then realizes that the ribbon is smoldering. “Oh! I — ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley thankfully seems to realize then that he’s panicking. He leans over and takes his hand. “Breathe, angel,” he says. “Just breathe.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Holding Crowley’s hand helps, but it isn’t enough. Aziraphale feels too big and too small. He wants to spread his wings and fly. He wants to— “I can’t!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shh,” Crowley soothes. He drops his hand — oh, and that’s worse! — except then, he steps closer and puts a hand on either side of Aziraphale’s face, looking down to meet his eyes and letting his sunglasses slip halfway down his nose. “It’s okay, angel. You’re still you. You can leave at any time.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I — ” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley is right. He</span>
  <em>
    <span> is </span>
  </em>
  <span>still an angel. Under Crowley’s careful hand, he can once again feel himself,</span>
  <em>
    <span> all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of himself. He takes a deep breath and stretches his wings in the celestial plane, confirming that he’s able to do so through every dimension. He breathes out. He’s okay. He’s not cut off and constrained like a demon is, which means he can ascend out of Hell. It isn’t an end point for him. “You’re right,” he says, breathing easier again. “Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He makes it through the rest of the descent. It’s awful — especially when the water rises over his head — but he closes his eyes and reminds himself that he doesn’t actually</span>
  <em>
    <span> need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to breathe, and then finally they emerge into the dark, dank, disgusting corridors of Hell. For all their slime, though, the hallways are at least bustling, which is a fair sight better than Heaven. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Things get worse when they exit the first circle, though. Aziraphale hadn’t been further than this last time, since the courtroom they’d constructed for Crowley’s trial had been a hastily manufactured thing. This time, they walk past the first circle and into the second, and he can see that the burning rings of fire described in scripture — and bemoaned by Crowley several times during the sixth and seventh centuries — have been replaced by a set of cranky, stuttering, half-broken elevators. Aziraphale tries to be stoic but the abrupt and unpredictable jarring threatens to send the breakfast Crowley had so kindly bought him onto the floor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I—” he starts, unsure if he’ll make it the rest of the journey. He reaches out to put a hand on the elevator wall, thinks better of it, and catches Crowley’s hand instead. “Can we— ?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley threads their fingers together. “Anything, angel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon rolls her eyes very expressively. “We’re almost there.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are we?” Aziraphale asks tremulously.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Dagon says with a grin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think we</span>
  <em>
    <span> are,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Crowley says, glaring over the lip of his sunglasses.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon huffs out a breath. “You’re no fun.” She snaps her fingers and the elevator abruptly drops, catches, drops one more time, and then dings open. “Here we go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale, feeling mostly green by this point, gratefully rushes out. “Oh, thank God.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No need to bring Her into this,” Dagon grumbles. She leads them down a corridor that is somehow more musty and smelly then the ones upstairs. “This way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley hasn’t let go of his hand yet. Aziraphale, darting a glance at him, clutches tighter. “Is this okay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This?” Crowley asks, squeezing his hand. When Aziraphale nods nervously, Crowley shoots him a shaky smile. “Angel,</span>
  <em>
    <span> this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the only okay thing right now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He summons a smile. “Okay. We’ll be fine, dearest.” He tries to summon a little of his earlier confidence. It’d been so much easier in the middle of St James’s Park. “It’s just dinner.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yes,” Dagon says from in front of them. She’d clearly been eavesdropping shamelessly. “Just dinner, indeed.” With a grin, she stops and reaches over to open a battered and extremely dubious looking door. “After you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley puts his other hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and walks in first. Aziraphale doesn’t let him get more than a half step ahead before he follows. “Oh,” he says, stopping despite himself to stare at the set up in front of them. “Oh my.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A table with four place settings is sitting in the centre of the room. The room itself is noticeably different from the rest of Hell. It’s not</span>
  <em>
    <span> nicer, </span>
  </em>
  <span>per say, neither more clean nor less shabby, but it is more organized. There are shelves along the wall with various paraphernalia, mostly of the insect-collecting variety, and a set of rugs scattered along the floor. The table itself looks old and more than half rotted, with clear signs of termite damage. The silverware is spotted and the napkins stained. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Despite all of that, though — or perhaps because of it — Aziraphale finds himself charmed. There’s been real effort put in here. It might only be in the service of spitting in Heaven’s face, but still. “Thank you,” he says sincerely to Dagon, waiting by the door. “This looks lovely.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon starts, a look of surprise flitting across her face. A scowl overtakes it, and then a peering look, and finally an unsure, cautious sort of gratefulness. “Uh. You’re welcome?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley chokes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon glares at him and follows them in, closing the door behind her as she does. As if the click of the door were a signal, Beelzebub appears from around a corner. “Aziraphale, Crowley,” they say, at once bored, welcoming, sneering, and emphatic. Really, it’s a dizzying combination. “You made it.” They glance at the ribbon on Aziraphale’s chest. “And only slightly singed. I’m impressed.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No you aren’t,” Crowley hisses. His grip tightens. “We’re here, already. Get on with it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale has spent much of the past week wondering about this mysterious ‘scrapbook’ and what it might entail. Whenever he’d asked, Crowley had tried to change the subject, and when he’d persisted, Crowley had mumbled various things but never answered the question. Aziraphale has prepared himself for what he thinks are the most likely scenarios, which are primarily of the blood-and-or-gore variety. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beezlebub grins evilly. “Oh no,” they say, “I really think we should have dinner first. Really draw this out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley groans. “Bee</span>
  <em>
    <span>ee</span>
  </em>
  <span>ze — ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub tutts. “Now, now, where are my manners?” They cough slightly and gesture to the table. “After you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale steps forward much more eagerly than Crowley. He isn’t expecting much from the food — Heaven never quite got the concept — but his stomach has settled from the descent and he’s not surprised to find that he’s quite hungry. “Yes, please, thank you ever so much.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub raises an eyebrow at his enthusiasm but sits down at what is nominally the head of the table. Dagon takes the place at their left and Aziraphale the one at their right, leaving Crowley to sigh and fall into the chair directly across from his ex-boss. They’re forced by distance to stop holding hands and Crowley immediately slouches down in his seat, kicking his feet under the table and maybe-not-quite-so-accidentally tangling his feet up with Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale presses his leg back against Crowley’s and smiles.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And now,” Beelzebub says, raising their hand and clicking their fingers in a manner both obnoxious and bored, “we eat.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sits forward eagerly as a plate appears in front of him. It’s a lovely polished silver, noticeably more lovely than anything in the room, and almost ridiculously ornate. There are bees, vines, and flowers — carnivorous flowers, he notes absently — twining around the rim, almost life-like in their depiction. He can feel a flare of energy from across the table and then hears the sound of crunching. His plate remains empty, however. With a frown, Aziraphale looks up.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon and Beelzebub are both eating. Dagon has her razor sharp teeth buried in a hunk of raw meat while Beelzebub saws off pieces of rotted fruit with two tiny, needle-like knives. Aziraphale blinks at them, confused, and then looks over at Crowley. He’s still sitting slouched in his chair, arms folded over his chest, and he huffs at the question on Aziraphale’s face. “It’s a Summoning Plate, angel. The best temptations, yeah? Just touch it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He looks down at his plate with a second pair of eyes and catches the infernal designs woven through the vines. “Ah, I see.” He thinks for a moment and then touches the plate. “Oh my!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He had</span>
  <em>
    <span> thought </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d wanted braised pork with truffle sauce and a plate of pan-seared risotto but instead, the instant his finger touched the plate, a bowl of delectable fagioli e cotiche appeared. Aziraphale leans forward and inhales the aroma, his mouth watering already. “Oh yes, this is exactly what I hadn’t realized I wanted. Well done.” He picks up his spoon and then looks towards Crowley. “What about you, my dear? Aren’t you eating?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon tips her head back to swallow. “Yeah, Crowley,” she teases, “aren’t you eating?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley glares at her, somehow effectively despite the sunglasses. Dagon rolls her eyes but turns back to her meal. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub, though, looks up from their plate and scowls. “Eat something, Crowley. Dinner means food.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley makes a face. His gaze is now resolutely turned away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale frowns. “Whatever you like, darling,” he says. He doesn’t understand why Crowley seems so nervous. “It’s alright.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley lets out a sigh he clearly intends to sound put-upon, but which comes out rather more shaky than Aziraphale thinks he intended. He leans forward and nudges the plate with his nose, and then opens his mouth and swallows the rather surprised looking vole that appears there almost the instant it materializes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He looks away while he swallows, which doesn’t take nearly so long as a vole of that size should. Aziraphale still doesn’t understand why he looks so uncomfortable. “Slowly, my dear,” he can’t resist saying. “Don’t choke.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley dips his head down to look at him, peering carefully over the edge of the sunglasses. He gives one last large swallow and then says, somewhat cautiously. “Snake, remember? Can’t choke.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale chuckles at himself. “Yes, of course. I simply wanted you to enjoy it, I mean. Have another if you like.” He applies himself to his soup. “Mm. Absolutely delightful.” He looks towards Beelzebub. “Are we allowed a second course?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub is looking at him with a peering expression. “Have as much as you like,” they say after a moment. “Gluttony is a sin, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale tutts. “Only if excessive desire for food causes it to be withheld from the needy,” he reminds them. This is an argument he and Crowley have worn well into grooves in the middle of the night, usually with a bottle of something red on the table between them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can see where Crowley gets most of his arguments now. Beelzebub only raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know where that soup came from. Could have been a soup kitchen.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I very much doubt it,” Aziraphale says dryly, “but just to be certain — ” He snaps his fingers. Every London soup kitchen is now serving fagioli e cotiche and is quite confused about it. For good measure, Aziraphale adds a butter lettuce side with thin-sliced Belgian endives and fresh toasted garlic bread. “There.” He smiles at Beelzebub. It seems to make Crowley, who is no longer preoccupied with his vole and therefore possessing no excuse, choke. “All better.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub raises a second eyebrow. “Crowley,” they say, not looking away from Aziraphale. “I like this angel.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley shows his teeth as he glares back. “Too bad, he’s mine.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no,” Beelzebub corrects with a smug look, “after this, he’s</span>
  <em>
    <span> ours.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley looks ready to snarl, so Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Please,” he says, patting his belly, “there’s quite enough of me to go around. More likely, after this delicious meal.” He puts his spoon down and touches his plate, delighted when a pan seared salmon with lemon garlic and frites appears. “Wonderful!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub grins widely, apparently charmed. Crowley says something indistinguishable under his breath. Aziraphale ignores them both and applies himself to his food. All told, he eats five courses, offering to stop only when he’d finished a side of polenta topped with wild moose sprinkled with fresh parmesan cheese, and is offered dessert instead. He cajoles the table into sharing the baklava that appears, sure that Beelzebub, at least, will appreciate the honey. To their apparent surprise, they do. Crowley grudgingly conjures a selection of sweetmeats and shares with Dagon, and then finally, coffee and tea make the rounds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That was exquisite,” Aziraphale says when he’s finally full, leaning back and resting his hands on the, indeed now much larger, swell of his belly. “Thank you, Lord Beelzebub.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub waves the complement away. “It wazz nothing,” they say, clearly sated, leaning back in their chair, their buzz on full display. “Let uz move to the sitting room. We’ve ztill much to discuss.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, can’t do it,” Crowley moans, sprawled in a much more haphazard manner than his former boss. He had eaten another vole, and possibly a third while Aziraphale was distracted. There was a clear bump in his middle. “Too much food. Sleep now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon yawns lazily, exposing her teeth, pale flesh still clinging to some parts of them. “Move your ass, Crowley.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley groans at the ceiling and flicks his middle finger towards Dagon. “Fuck you, Files.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub huffs a sigh seemingly from their toes. “Fine,” they say, and then click their fingers. The termite-chewed table and chairs are instantly replaced by four long, roman-style couches, only a little moth-eaten around the edges. “Shut your whining.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley burps loudly and stretches out. Aziraphale can’t deny that it feels exceptionally good to be laying sideways. “Oh yes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They laze about in a post-prandic stupor for an unknown length of time. Finally Beelzebub grunts and shifts forward, the heavy tread of their boots thumping against the floor. “Okay morons, let’s do this. Dagon, get the book.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nooo,” Crowley moans from his couch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub aims a kick in his general direction without actually getting up. “Shutaup.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon levers herself off her couch and ambles towards the back room. Crowley grumbles but doesn’t actually protest. Dagon reappears after a moment with a large, clearly hand-made scrapbook in one hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub snaps their fingers and a low frosted table appears in the middle of the room, cracked along one side. Dagon drops the scrapbook on it and then drags her couch closer, leaning forward so she can see. Aziraphale sits up interestedly, blinking the lazy sleep from his eyes. He stares at the book.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s fascinating. The cover has been decorated with bits of feathers and scales. There are paw prints in one corner and tiny little mouse-tail marks in another. There’s no title to be seen, but a demonic sigil written in blood carries the suggestion of great enjoyment and, also, acute embarrassment. “Oh my,” Aziraphale says, in a tone that would have made the director of Sotheby’s sit up in interest and, indeed, has, on more than one occaison.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley grumbles from his corner. “Should have made it a slideshow,” he says to no one in particular. “He wouldn’t have cared about a slideshow. Had to be a book.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub ignores him and leans over to flip open the cover. “Now I don’t know what fancy-pancy nonsense Upstairs has been going on about, but</span>
  <em>
    <span> this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is how you do a mating.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s eyes are drawn to both the looping text of recited vows and the hundreds upon hundreds of photographs. Being a book far older than any actual human texts, the demonic scrapbook appears to combine the database sensibilities of a next generation computer with the multi-layered representation of a holographic interface, all flattened into an easy-to-carry package and layered with demonic spells to protect it against Heavenly interference. Aziraphale doesn’t dare touch the pages himself, no matter how much he wants to, but keeps his hands fisted tightly at his sides as he leans down for a better view. Thankfully, being among his own kind — or near enough — Aziraphale has no compunction opening multiple sets of eyes so he can devour everything at once.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This is simply lovely,” he says, re-reading the vows.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “‘To you I hold and let myself be held, to you I listen and let myself be heard.’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>How beautiful! And I— Oh!” He colours as another set of eyes widen at one of the pictures. “Oh my.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley pushes his face into a cushion. “I knew this was a terrible idea.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub grins. “Are we offending your delicate sensibilities, Principality?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale bristles. “I have been on Earth for  a very long time, you know, and in SoHo, no less. I’m not put off by physical displays of affection.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub raises an eyebrow and points to a particular picture, which, at their touch, jolts into motion. It shows a large blood red spider very enthusiastically humping a praying mantis which is, apparently, going for its head and missing. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale clears his throat and scans through a few more pictures, managing only through force of will not to look over at Crowley. “Is the, ah, physical act a requirement of the ceremony, then?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“NO,” Crowley says, too loudly, jolting up from the couch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub shrugs lazily. “Not especially,” they agree, “though most prefer it.” They thumb to another picture, this one showing a rangy wolf very effectively holding down a blood-red fox. Blood flies from the mouth of the wolf but no, er,</span>
  <em>
    <span> other </span>
  </em>
  <span>fluids are present. The fox also looks like it’s rather enjoying it. “There are other ways to stake a claiming.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh really?” Aziraphale asks, priding himself on the purely conversational tone of his voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Absolutely,” Dagon chimes in, her voice almost a purr. “That’s the whole point down here. You should see the rituals for divorce.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley glares. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub flicks a hand. “You’ll notice, though,” they say, waving a hand at the book, “that the ceremony is also done only in our True Forms.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Aziraphale says, blinking most sets of eyes and looking over the book. Every demon present is in their animal form. “Oh yes, I see.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Which is why this entire discussion is pointless,” Crowley growls. He’s sitting up now and has his sunglasses firmly in place. “Aziraphale doesn’t have a True Form.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub shrugs non-committedly. “You mean he doesn’t yet.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Something about the off-hand statement makes Crowley go utterly still. “No.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub raises an eyebrow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” Crowley repeats, on his feet now and glaring down at his former boss. “I’m not letting him go through that!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“When you say ‘True Form,’” Aziraphale asks, still caught up on the terminology, “do you mean— ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub just looks up at Crowley. Crowley crosses his arms. “It’ss jusst what it ssoundsss like,” he hisses, the lisp confirming he’s upset. “Hell doesn’t hand out bodiesss like Heaven doesss.” He takes a deep breath. “What we’ve got, we made. We did it in those first hours, before humanity was even created, when we were first cast down.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon nods, sliding forward. “And using our own bodies is so much more efficient. Less to count out, less to lose, plus any damage you take you’re responsible for fixing yourself. It’s a win-win.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose this isn’t a surprise,” Aziraphale says slowly. He can’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> not </span>
  </em>
  <span>look at Crowley right now, even if Crowley isn’t looking at him. “I always knew you were a snake, my dear, I simply did not realize that…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That a snake is all I am?” Crowley’s voice is tight.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “No of course not. Nothing about you is</span>
  <em>
    <span> all </span>
  </em>
  <span>you are. Only, you’d mentioned once or twice about having to heal yourself and, of course, a corporation wouldn’t hurt as much walking on consecrated ground.” He thinks back to that night in 1941. “I simply hadn’t taken my knowledge to its fullest conclusion, I suppose.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “Not for the first time, I’m sorry to say, and likely not for the last. Foolish angel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley unwinds slightly at that. “You aren’t foolish.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale shakes his head. “I may be intelligent, my dear, but I am not always</span>
  <em>
    <span> smart.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He smiles at Crowley. “I leave that to you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley rewards him with a faint smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon rolls her eyes. “Anyway, in this I agree with the delinquent. We can’t do the ceremony if the angel doesn’t have a True Form.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s why,” Beelzebub says, leaning back against their couch, “I said ‘yet.’”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley goes tense again. “You aren’t throwing him into the burning pit of sulphur.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub rolls their eyes. “He’d hardly require the entire lake. A bathtub would do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I said</span>
  <em>
    <span> no.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale puts a hand up between them. “Wait, please. I’d like the facts for myself. Would someone explain what it is you’re talking about?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We created our forms immediately after falling,” Crowley grits out. “We didn’t have any other way of getting around.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And that… involved a burning pit of sulphur?” Aziraphale can’t help but ask trepidatiously. Crowley hasn’t talked much about The Fall; a few scattered comments here and there, mostly dismissive. Aziraphale has always privately hoped it wasn’t as painful as human representation would have him believe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley grits his teeth, however, and doesn’t answer. Dagon is the one who sits forward with a malicious grin. “Oh yes,” she says, “burning pits of sulphur. Molten lava, too, for some of us, but of the metaphysical variety, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m afraid, rather, I don’t,” Aziraphale admits.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub rolls their eyes. “It wasn’t that dramatic. Everyone in Hell survived it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We emerged from the Pit scarred, our fractured souls constricted, trapped in baser forms until we could learn how to shift into human facsimiles,” Crowley says flatly. “You aren’t putting him through that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’d be a learning experience,” Beelzebub says.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’d be torture,” Crowley growls.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How painful, exactly, are we talking?” Aziraphale asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley whips his head around. “Angel, no!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I said I wanted to learn about Hell’s rituals,” Aziraphale says stubbornly, “and I do. True Forms appear to be important.” He can feel his expression soften. “I want to do right by you, darling.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then keep yourself safe, angel,” Crowley says, his voice broken. “That’s all that I want.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll be safe as rocks,” Dagon says dismissively. She frowns. “Or is it windows? Humans are such strange creatures.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub rolls their eyes. “He can’t do the ceremony if he doesn’t have a True Form. It wouldn’t count.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley growls. “Then we’ll get married in a Heaven-only ceremony. You’ll love it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub shrugs. “I’d hate it, but whatever, you do what you want.” They stab a finger towards the scrapbook. “But even if I sign the contract after, Hell would never recognize it. Ceremonies matter. You</span>
  <em>
    <span> know </span>
  </em>
  <span>that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You just want to see him in pain,” Crowley seethes, scales rippling for a moment under his skin. “You just want to torture him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub waves a hand. “Pain-shmaine. He’ll still be an angel. This won’t do anything to change that. Yeah, it’ll hurt for a minute, but what of it? He’ll still have his Grace.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s an expression of half disgust, half jealousy on Beelzebub’s face, and Aziraphale can’t help but feel relieved by it. He’s not a fan of discomfort, by any measure, and rather unaccustomed to pain. Knowing his Grace will make things easier helps, and that makes him feel guilty a moment later, because Crowley has been through this and he didn’t have anything. That, more than anything, makes him decide. “I’ll do it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon looks confused. Crowley looks shattered. Beelzebub just grins. “Knew you would. You’d do anything to keep him safe, wouldn’t you? That’s what’ll make this legitimate.” They tap a section of the vows, the part that says</span>
  <em>
    <span> ‘Your pain will be my pain.’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>“You do this right, every demon in Hell will respect it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale nods firmly. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Angel, please,” Crowley whispers. “We’ll find another way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub shrugs. “There is no other way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s got to be!” Crowley argues. “Something other than the pit!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub shakes their head. “You need something sharp and fast. There aren’t many things that can hurt us.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon is still peering at Aziraphale curiously. “Do you even know how to create a body?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Um.” Aziraphale thinks furiously. “No?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon cackles. “This is gonna be great.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub looks at her. “Good point. Congratulations, you just volunteered to teach him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon stops laughing. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub rolls their eyes. “Just show him the basics. Get him ready.” They grin. “You’ll be like his Godmother.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon blinks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale stares.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley puts his head in his hands. “Oh, Satan.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You keep Him out of this,” Beelzebub growls. “He’s still miffed about the Apocalypse thing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley lifts his head to narrow his eyes at Beelzebub. “Why are you so invested in this?” He sits up, waving a hand. “Dinner, the ceremony, everything.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub just grins. “Do you really have to ask? I’m doing it for Gabriel, of course. I want to see that wanker's face when you hold angel-baby here on the ground and bite him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, in quite a different tone of voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley blushes almost as dark as his hair. “Ngk.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh, you people,” Dagon sighs, reaching over and grabbing Aziraphale. “Come with me. I’m going to teach you how to make a body.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ceremony is almost perfunctory after all the preparation. Aziraphale doesn’t bother to inform Heaven about the (“Un-Baptism,” Beelzebub had suggested with a fearsome grin, “Re-making,” Dagon had said in what she clearly thought was a helpful tone, “Torture,” Crowley had maintained, every line of his shoulders tight) ceremony. He’s been told he’s allowed to have family or friends present but the only people Aziraphale would want are those who have already been invited. There’s rather more of those than he had expected, actually. No one has been through this since the Fall and he’s been told to expect quite the turn out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The ceremony appears simple enough. The basics have clearly been taken from the Greek Orthodox Church. Aziraphale had asked why that church specifically in one of the planning meetings and had been laughed at for more than fifteen minutes without even Crowley deigning to explain. Conversations between the two of them have been short and tense ever since Aziraphale agreed to this. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can find another way,” Crowley promises one last time before Aziraphale is led out. They’re doing the ceremony in the same room they’d constructed for Crowley’s execution. Aziraphale had tried to argue out of it and had been overruled. Even Crowley had admitted the symbolism fit nicely.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe you can,” Aziraphale tells him, pulling the bathrobe more closely around himself. He’s been told not to wear anything he likes to the ceremony and having nothing in his closet he would be willing to sacrifice, he’d doggedly headed down to the local Tesco. “But I want to do this right.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley pushes his sunglasses on top of his head and mutters something under his breath. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What was that, dearest?” Aziraphale asks. They’re alone in the small corridor off to the side of the throne room but Dagon will be along shortly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley swallows and looks at him, some deep churning emotion behind his beautiful yellow eyes. He opens his mouth to say something but no sound comes out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He said, ‘I’m not worth this,’” Beelzebub informs Aziraphale in a bored tone, strolling lazily in from around the corner. Their eyes flick to Crowley and then away, one hand raising almost absently to slap him upside the head. “The idiot. He’s always been stupider than most.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale bristles despite the almost fond tone of Beelzebub’s voice. “He most certainly is not.” He turns back to Crowley and takes his hand. “And you most certainly are.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley rubs the back of his head where Beelzebub had slapped him and avoids Aziraphale’s eye. “You say that now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I will say that always,” Aziraphale promises. He can’t help but rock forward on his toes. “Besides, I have to admit that I’m curious. My own corporation! It’s a wonderful concept, really. It will be so nice not to have to depend on Heaven for once. That is should anything, er, happen.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly,” Dagon agrees, ambling in from the throne room. She looks at Aziraphale. “Are you ready?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sleeves of her coat are ominously smoking, but Aziraphale squares his shoulders. “I am.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub gives him a nod and turns away. A moment later they stop, roll their eyes, and turn back around, reaching for Crowley and yanking him off his feet. “Come</span>
  <em>
    <span> on. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley manages a brief, flickering glance towards Aziraphale that confers the full depth of his anxiety, but lets himself be led. Aziraphale watches the tight line of his shoulders as he walks away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a deep breath and turns back to Dagon, who’s waiting impatiently. “I’m ready.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon rolls her eyes. “Of course you are.” She stops to give Aziraphale a hard stare. “Remember to grab for the energy right away. The longer you hang about, the harder it’ll be.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Aziraphale says, nodding sharply. He can do this. He</span>
  <em>
    <span> has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do this. Crowley did this, and so has every demon in Hell. That means he can, too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And if it hurts, well. Crowley is worth it, whatever he may think.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He waits with Dagon while Beelzebub speaks. They have a speech written, a far shorter one than Aziraphale knows Gabriel would have made. “The Principality Aziraphale, engaged to the traitorous Demon Crowley, will prove his acceptance of our ways by shedding his Heaven-sent corporation and finding his True Form. Principality, come forth.” Aziraphale takes that as his cue and steps out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And promptly stops. Dagon, a foot behind him, runs into his leg. “Oof.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale doesn’t look back at her. He has been reduced to staring, outraged, at the air-filled plastic, slightly smoking kiddie pool that’s been set up in the middle of the room. “I say!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon ambling around to pass him, smirks. “What? I thought it suited you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale huffs. Beelzebub looks amused. The legions of Hell, arranged in a loose circle around the dais, murmur. Aziraphale swallows and looks out at them. There are a lot of demons there, more than it seems had come to Crowley’s execution. They  wait in a shuffling, curious horde, with no window to separate them from the spectacle this time. Aziraphale tenses as he feels their eyes on him — hundreds of beetle-dark, fox-red, weasel-brown eyes — and focuses back on Beelzebub.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Though you are an angel,” the Prince of Hell goes on, “you have pledged yourself to one of ours. Step now into the pool of your own volition, a Choice we all made though we knew it not, and prove your devotion.” They wave to the kiddie pool.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale can’t help but hesitate. Beelzebub, staring hard at Aziraphale, raises their voice. “Do you Choose Hell, Principality?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale straightens his shoulders. “No,” he says. “I choose Crowley.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub holds his gaze a second, then nods. There’s the faintest whiff of a smile about their face. Maybe it’s the way the flies buzz a little more happily. “Then step forward.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes a deep breath and does. The chamber has gone utterly silent. He’s sure he can hear Crowley’s cut-off inhalation as he feels Dagon’s hand on the back of his head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale is expecting a dunk into the sulphur — Dagon had said they’d submerge him — but instead of a polite push, he’s given an almighty shove. Flailing slightly, Aziraphale falls. He doesn’t quite manage to shut his eyes before he hits the sulfur.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And oh god, it</span>
  <em>
    <span> burns. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It burns hot and fast, a terrible flash of power, and Aziraphale knows instinctively that it would have been worse to fall into at high speed, still staggered by the expulsion from Heaven. Instead, his Grace burns brightly within him as he falls, steadying him even as the burst of pain shears away his corporation as fast as a hot knife slices through butter. He doesn’t even have time to scream.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then he’s uncontained, an angel loose among the halls of Hell, and he understands the need for a corporation now because it</span>
  <em>
    <span> hurts </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a way he hadn’t been expecting. If the echoing cries of the onlookers are any indication, it’s hurting more than just him, too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Aziraphale thinks, panicking suddenly. He doesn’t want to hurt Crowley. Who knows what exposure to an unadulterated angel could do to him? Aziraphale grabs quickly at the matter of creation. He tries to follow the instructions Dagon had given him, but mostly, he throws matter over himself as quickly as possible. He doesn’t put any thought into the form he’s constructing. He works on instinct and only knows that he’s done when the bright sheen of divine energy finally dims and the cries around him fall away. Aziraphale patches one last hole and stops, panting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Finally,” Beelzebub growls. It’s been five minutes or five hours, Aziraphale can’t tell. “Took you long enough.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale shakes his head and looks around. The sulphuric liquid has been burned away. The kiddie pool he’s standing in has been scorched and burnt and is now half-deflated, and Beelzebub themselves look rather worse for wear. They are also a lot</span>
  <em>
    <span> taller </span>
  </em>
  <span>than they had been. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks down at himself and gasps. It comes out as more of a screech. Instinctively he flaps his wings to gain elevation. His new brown-and-cream coloured wings beat powerfully, yet silently, as he pulls away from the floor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale turns his head to find him in the crowd. He notes as he does so that his head moves easily through a full one hundred and eighty degrees, and his eyes focus in a way he hadn’t been expecting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It brings his demon into sharp relief. Aziraphale can see that Crowley is standing in front of the crowd. He looks like he’s moved forward a couple of steps, like maybe he’s had his hand outstretched. Still, like the rest of Hell, he’s been scorched. His shirt is smoking and there’s a red rash over his skin. He’s also staring. “Of course.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale beats his wings again. That’s when Dagon laughs. Aziraphale looks over to see her smirking to herself. “An owl? Should’ve guessed. It’s a good thing Crowley isn’t a rat!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale hoots. He’d meant to protest — he’d never</span>
  <em>
    <span> eat </span>
  </em>
  <span>Crowley — except he can’t seem to form words. He ducks his head, embarrassed, and focuses on altering his new corporation so it’s capable of human speech. He gets lost in the development of vocal cords, however, and accidentally shape-changes back into his preferred human form. “Oof!” he gasps, after falling hard on the floor. The charred plastic pool is rough against his skin. “I say!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a titter from the demons around him. Crowley hurries forward, snapping his fingers to summon a blanket from the ether. “Are you alright?” he asks, skidding to his knees in front of Aziraphale. He wraps the blanket around Aziraphale’s shoulders, rubbing his arms violently through the fabric. “No, don’t try to talk. You must be freezing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale realizes belatedly that he’s naked. And shaking.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Shock, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks, leaning gratefully into Crowley’s embrace. He’s heard humans speak of it. Must be why his teeth are chattering. “That was really quite something.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I tried to tell you,” Crowley says, his voice raw. This close, Aziraphale can see that his eyes are wide behind his sunglasses. “For fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, you didn’t have to do that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I did,” Aziraphale corrects him, one hand coming up to brush Crowley’s face. Too late he realizes that it might be inappropriate, and potentially unwelcome. He shifts his hand to Crowley’s shoulder instead. “And besides, I like my new corporation. An owl!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Very fitting,” Crowley agrees, his smile somewhat shaky. Aziraphale tightens the hand on Crowley’s shoulder and watches Crowley lean into it. Perhaps not so unwelcome after all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, break it up,” Beelzebub growls. Aziraphale looks up to see them scowling. Despite that, there’s something fond behind their eyes. “You’re not getting married yet. Save the mating for the real party.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their voice is loud enough to echo. A couple of the demons laugh. Crowley shudders. Before Aziraphale can say anything, Crowley reaches forward and pulls him up, along with the blanket he has wrapped around his body. “I’m taking him back topside,” Crowley says, his voice something between asking for permission and a demand. “He needs to heal.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale focuses on keeping both of his — human! — feet under him as Beelzebub rolls their eyes. The shape-shifting had been nearly instinctual, a rushed thing, but now he realizes that he can feel his corporation in a way he never could before. He isn’t inhabiting some meat-sack right now; this is something he</span>
  <em>
    <span> made. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Beelzebub is saying. They flap a hand towards the ceiling. “Go. We’ll be in touch.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure you will,” Crowley growls. He turns to the door, one arm still wrapped protectively around Aziraphale.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Aziraphale says, and then turns back to Beelzebub and Dagon. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “This is an experience I won’t forget.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub holds his gaze a moment, and then nods. Dagon just grins. “You’re welcome. You weren’t half bad at it, in the end.” She glares down at her singed clothes. “Though I could’ve done without the unfiltered angel tan.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, well,” Aziraphale stutters, blushing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh,” Crowley groans, rolling his eyes audibly. He grabs Aziraphale’s shoulders and forcibly spins him around. “Bye now!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale assures. “After you, my dear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Getting used to his owl form isn’t difficult. Aziraphale has never been what he would call an animal person but he’s accustomed to owls. He remembers their hoots and calls from long nights spent whiling away the dark hours. There had been so many nights before books had been invented, when the humans around him had been sleeping and he’d been bored.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Watching didn’t quite equate to being, of course, but Aziraphale’s True Form is an owl for a reason. He’s snippity, and stern, and tends to glare when he isn’t paying attention. He finds himself doing it the next day when customers take advantage of his distracted state to walk into the bookshop. He’d been practicing shifting forms in the backroom but soon enough finds himself perching on the rafters near the ceiling, glaring down at the customers rather as though they're mice.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thankfully, Crowley arrives shortly afterwards. “Angel?” he calls, glancing around the bookshop. Aziraphale watches with smug satisfaction as the humans all look up. His demon always carries with him a faint miasma of Hell. It’s usually a subtle thing, a whiff of brimstone if the wind is right, easily disguised all the other scents he extrudes — coffee, mostly, and whatever expensive new cologne is most likely to irritate allergy suffers — but today, with a trip to Hell recently under his belt, the five humans in Aziraphale’s store turn positively green. Every one of them is out the door within moments. Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief. Standing up, he stretches his wings, hoots once to draw Crowley’s attention, and then glides soundlessly to the floor. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thank you, my dear,” he says once he’s transformed back. It still takes him a moment to manage it. He needs to practice more. “One of them actually flipped through my Mrs Beeton, if you can imagine it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley’s frown twitches. “Perish the thought,” he says, and then shakes his head. “Listen, angel, I’ve been thinking.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Uh oh.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley glares. “About<em> Heaven. </em>How exactly are we going to explain this to them?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Explain what, my dear?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“This.<em> Everything,” </em>Crowley splutters. “Your True Form, Hell, the — ” he seems to be fighting a blush, “ — the ceremony thing.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah,” Aziraphale agrees. “Well, it will be rather tricky.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley scoffs.<em> “Tricky.”  </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale shoots him a look. “Yes. However, I have been reporting to Heaven for over six thousand years now, my dear. I know how to word a report.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley crosses his arms. “Do you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale chooses not to respond to that. “The trick,” he says instead, “will be Gabriel. We’ll need to talk to him. Make him think this is his idea.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley stares. “His idea?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “If we can do that then he’ll be all for it. Even if it causes problems with the other archangels, he’ll push it through.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley shakes his head. “That won’t work, angel. He might be an idiot, but he isn’t stupid. He’ll figure it out.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale waves a hand. “He won’t figure it out. I know what to do.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You don’t know what to do.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes I do! I know Gabriel. I’ll need your help, though.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Really? To lie to an archangel?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale glares. “It won’t be lying! It’ll be… telling the truth with style.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley grins. “Well, that I know how to do.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m well aware.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley pouts. “Do you want my help or not?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes I want your help!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Then don’t tell me what to do.” He pauses. “But tell me what to do.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale grins. “Perfect.”</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They tag-team Gabriel that afternoon. Aziraphale gets out his new Heaven-sent communication device and rests it on the table. He presses a button and clears his throat. “Hello. I’d like to speak to the archangel Gabriel, please.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The background of drifting clouds quicken before clearing out of sight. The screen wavers and suddenly Gabriel’s face is far too close. “Aziraphale!” he calls out, thankfully backing up. “Good to see you! What can I do for you this fine day?” He chuckles. “Not that it isn’t always a fine day in Heaven, but it’s particularly excellent today. I got a rude note from Beelzebub.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, well,” Aziraphale says, his prepared script wavering in the face of Gabriel’s cheerfulness. “That’s… good? But— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley rolls his eyes and leans into Aziraphale’s space. “Listen, Gabriel, we’ve got a problem.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel frowns. “Oh, the demon.” He puts on what is very obviously his being-polite face. “What kind of problem?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s Hell,” Aziraphale says, remembering himself. “They, er, aren’t keen on the idea. Of marriage. <em> Our </em>marriage, that is.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel grins. “Right. That’s the beauty of this, isn’t it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, well...” Aziraphale trails off.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s not us Beelzebub has a problem with,” Crowley interrupts. “It’s the idea of a Heaven-only ceremony that they don’t like.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Aw, shucks,” Gabriel smirks. “That’s too bad. Guess they’ll just have to get used to it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“See, that’s the problem,” Aziraphale goes on, finding his script again. “They don’t. They’re refusing to sign the contract as things stand.” He pauses a beat. “And we can’t force them.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh,” Gabriel says with a frown. “Shoot.” He makes a face. “I suppose it is just like them to be difficult.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Right,” Aziraphale says, “except this is a bit more than simply being difficult. We’re at a complete standstill.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel glares. “That’s unacceptable. Have you talked to them?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I have.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ahh— ” Aziraphale trails off. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley crowds into his space again. “They’re fine with you dictating the marriage but they want to be in charge of the ceremony afterwards.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel frowns. “What ceremony?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s a Hell thing,” Aziraphale explains quickly. “Sort of like an after party.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley frowns and leans out of camera range.<em> ‘After party?’ </em>he mouths. Aziraphale ignores him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, that doesn’t sound too challenging,” Gabriel says. “I suppose we could incorporate some Hellish influence.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley leans back in and scoffs. “I don’t think so.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel glares. “Why not? We absolutely could!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No,” Crowley growls, “because then<em> he </em>— ” he jabs a finger at Aziraphale “ — would have to do that part of the ceremony in his True Form.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel frowns. “What’s a True Form?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s a corporation demons create themselves,” Aziraphale says, leaning in again. “Rather a big deal to them.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Beelzebub won’t okay the marriage without it,” Crowley goes on, “and we knew it’d be a no-go for you. You aren’t going to be okay with an angel mucking around with a bunch of demons.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Aziraphale<em> mucking around </em>with demons is what got us into this mess in the first place,” Gabriel says severely. “He can handle it for one little ceremony.” He shifts to glare at Aziraphale. “Can’t you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale fumbles his script again. “Oh, um, well— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel’s eyes have gone hard.<em> “Can’t </em>you, Aziraphale? Because if you can’t that means Beelzebub has won this round, and that is simply not acceptable.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale sits up straight and squares his shoulders. “Of course not. I mean, of course I can. I can do it. The True Form part, that is.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good,” Gabriel says, all smiles again. “Excellent.” He looks back and forth between them. “Was that all?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It was,” Aziraphale says, relieved. “Thank you, Gabriel. You sorted it out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course I did,” Gabriel puffs. “You just needed an Archangel. Far-seeing problem solvers, that’s us.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Absolutely,” Aziraphale goes on, laying it on thick. “Completely. You knew just what to do.”  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Glad to be of service,” Gabriel says. He turns away from the screen and then stops and swivels back. “Oh, if Hell’s on board now we should probably meet with them.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale, who had been reaching for the button to close the call, pauses. “Sorry?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel shrugs. “Iron-out the details, that sort of a thing. We don’t want anything to mar the big day, after all!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Right, yes,” Aziraphale says, thinking quickly. “Well. Should I set something up then?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel waves a hand. “No, no, don’t worry about it. I’ll get it sorted.” He grins “I’ve got the perfect idea, too. A way to show Beelzebub what Heaven’s really capable of.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale pales. “Oh no. Gabriel, I don’t think that’s really a very good— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel just grins. “It is good, very good, of course it is, don’t worry about it. Listen, you just get Hell to agree, okay? We’ll sit down, have a meeting,” he grins with all his teeth, “and I’ll remind them why they don’t get to dictate terms.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But I really don’t think that’s going to— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I think three days would be good. Traditional amount of time, yeah? Good, good, great. I’ll see you then. Bye Aziraphale!” The screen goes dark. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, putting the phone down and turning to stare at Crowley. “What just happened?”</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter Seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>The days pass in odd jittery little hops, as though time is just as nervous as Aziraphale. Beelzebub needs very little prompting to agree to the meeting. They even grin when Crowley tries to warn them that Gabriel is up to something. “Of course he is, the feather-brained idiot. Don’t worry, we’ll handle it.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m not<em> worried,” </em>Crowley argues, but ends up saying so to empty air, because Beelzebub hangs up on him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale suggests dinner that night to distract them and Crowley grumbles but agrees. He buys them tickets afterwards, to a pop-up theatre company doing Shakespeare, and good natured arguing over the performance gets them through that evening and into the next day. Aziraphale spends it diligently practising how to transform his new corporation and Crowley pops back and forth between his flat and the bookshop, dirt on his sleeves betraying the fact that he’s taking his nervousness out on his plants. Eventually — finally — the morning of the meeting arrives. Aziraphale keeps the shop closed and busies himself cleaning every inch of it. Crowley comes over around ten but doesn’t do much to help, just flits nervously from stack to stack, staying a half a pace behind Aziraphale and rather getting in the way. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Crowley,” Aziraphale says firmly, after Crowley has nudged a pile of books out of place, “if you aren’t going to help then at least sit down.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am sitting down,” Crowley says irritably. He picks up and puts down a two-hundred year old compass, the corner of his hip balanced on Aziraphale’s desk. “See, I’m sitting?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re fretting is what you are,” Aziraphale grumbles.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley raises an eyebrow and looks around the never-so-clean-in-its-life shop. “Yeah? And what is it you’re doing, exactly?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale blushes. “Gabriel hates dust,” he says by way of explanation, “and Beelzebub made such an effort last time, and— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ugh,” Crowley says, dropping his head so it practically rolls on his neck, “how can you be on better terms with my boss than I am?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am not!” Aziraphale says, affronted. “Beelzebub’s quite fond of you, you know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley looks up to glare mulishly through his lashes. “Not fond enough to spare my life. They tried to kill me, you know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale puts down the book he’d been reorganizing and steps closer, laying a hand on Crowley’s arm. “Yes,” he says gently. “I know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley makes a face but doesn’t move. “‘S fine,” he says, looking away. “I knew they would. I wouldn’t have let you go down there if there was even a chance of them doing anything else.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But,” Aziraphale offers, giving him room to rant.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley leans into the pressure of Aziraphale’s hand. “But nothing. It’s fine.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale feels a very strong urge to brush a lock of hair off Crowley’s forehead. He represses it. He shouldn’t. And yet — Crowley<em> is </em>his fiancee now. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Swallowing, Aziraphale moves slowly, telegraphing his intention so Crowley has time to lean away if he wants to. He doesn’t. “It doesn’t have to be, you know,” he says quietly, shifting the offending hair. “Fine, that is.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley licks his lip and looks up. Their eyes meet. Aziraphale feels, even more strongly than usual, the urge to kiss him. “Crowley…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A phone rings. Aziraphale startles and looks around, remembering his Heaven-sent communication device only when he sees it vibrating on his desk. Embarrassed, he lets go of Crowley’s arm to pick up the phone. “Yes?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Aziraphale!” Gabriel calls out jubilantly. He’s somewhere very bright. “How are things?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Gabriel, hello, yes.” Aziraphales manages. “Things are... good. Very good. I’m just getting the bookshop ready.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh?” Gabriel asks. “Ready for what?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale blinks. He looks over, meeting Crowley’s equally-confused expression. “For the meeting this afternoon? With Hell?”  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course with Hell! Who else? But why are you fussing with that firetrap? I’ve got everything ready here!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley stiffens at the word ‘firetrap.’ Aziraphale shoots him a reassuring smile before turning his attention back to the phone. “What are you talking about, Gabriel? Beelzebub won’t come up to Heaven.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Pff, of course I know that. Honestly, Aziraphale. We aren’t in Heaven, we’re at the park.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale frowns. “You’re at the what?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The park! The one you keep bumbling around in, what’s it called?” Gabriel turns away from the phone and Aziraphale catches sight of branches swaying in the breeze. He also hears voices, an indistinct murmur from somewhere in the distance. “St James’s Park,” Gabriel says, turning back to the phone again. “That one.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it. “St James’s?” he asks finally. “What are you doing at St James’s?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I just told you,” Gabriel says, sounding aggrieved. “Getting ready for the meeting.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But,” Aziraphale looks around his meticulously cleaned shop, “I thought we’d agreed to meet at the bookshop!” They had<em> texted </em>about this. Aziraphale had very specifically learned to text.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel doesn’t seem to appreciate this. He tutts. “No,<em> you </em> agreed. I said I’d think about it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale closes his eyes. “Gabriel, I’ve got everything ready. Can you please just come to the bookshop?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nope,” Gabriel says cheerfully. “Not enough space.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not enough—? ” Aziraphale cuts himself off. “Gabriel, there’s only two of them.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And us.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And us makes five.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And the Host.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale stops. “The— the Host?” He grips the phone with both hands. “Gabriel, you invited the entire Holy Host?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale hears his jaw creak and realizes he’s clenching his teeth. “Gabriel,” he grits out, “I told Beelzebub to come up for a small meeting to talk things over in a neutral setting.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well it’s as neutral as it can be, it’s on Earth after all.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley puts his head in his hands and groans. Aziraphale wishes he could do the same. “Gabriel,” he tries. </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>“And besides,” Gabriel goes on, “this is for your demon, too. He should meet everyone. The archangels, the lower choir…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The situation is clearly spinning away from him. “He’s met you before,” Aziraphale tries feebly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well,” Gabriel says, “he might as well meet the whole family.”  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale opens his mouth several times but can’t think of a single reply. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Brilliant, I know,” Gabriel says, “but I’ve got to go. Sandalphlon’s here with the streamers. See you in an hour!” He grins jubilantly and the phone shuts off. Aziraphale stares blankly at the dark screen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thisss,” Crowley hisses, “is a disaster.” He starts pacing back and forth. “Who does he think he’s trying to fool?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale sighs and puts the phone down. “I think we have a much more pressing question, my dear.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley stops and looks at him in confusion. “What’s that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why are there streamers?”</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Beelzebub arrives an hour later with Dagon at their shoulder.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Come in, come in,” Aziraphale ushers, “don’t mind the door.” He leads the Prince of Hell into the bookshop and is relieved that his hard work will be put to<em> some </em>use, at least. With the threat of Gabriel gone, Aziraphale had reversed the cleaning he’d done with a snap of his fingers, bringing back the faint feeling of unease he’d cultivated over the years. He’d also added a particularly rank smell emanating from the southern-facing corner, and made sure to liberally coat his most public shelves in dust. Beelzebub gives the shop an approving nod and even Dagon looks impressed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Have you ever sold a single book?” Dagon asks as she peers around the darkened shop.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Once, in 1869,” Aziraphale admits. “I was still getting the hang of things then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Unfortunately, Aziraphale has to explain the change in location. Beelzebub only raises an eyebrow — unimpressed, irritated, and amused all at the same time — and Dagon sniffs. Aziraphale resists the urge to fidget and instead leads the way out of the shop and down the street. He does, unfortunately, flutter his hands nervously as they walk, himself in the lead with Beelzebub at his side and Dagon at their heels, Crowley prowling the streets behind them. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Such worry warts,” Beelzebub complains as they cross the short distance to St James’s. “You’re both being stupid. Gabriel’s a pea-brained pillock.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Be as that it may,” Azirpahale worries, “the other archangels are involved as well.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub shrugs. “We can take ‘em.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That is<em> not </em> what I—  Oh dear God.” Aziraphale stops, pulling up short as they round the corner to St James’s Park. The massive, ornamental gates are open but there’s a metaphysical barrier across the steps, the thought-order-command of <em> No Humans Here </em>ringing out loudly to their extraneous senses. “What in the world?” he asks, stepping closer. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Angel,” Crowley starts, stretching out his hand as if he’s prepared to pull Aziraphale back. “Be careful, you don’t know if— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Welcome!” Gabriel exclaims, bounding up the stairs. “Welcome, welcome! You’re late, but come in!” He shoots a particularly charming-and-yet-smug smile in Beelzebub’s direction. “We’ve made everything as welcoming as we could, at least on Earth, that is!” He chuckles in a self-satisfied-yet-mean-sort-of-way and oh God, Aziraphale thinks, looking between him and Beelzebub, they deserve each other. “Matter, right? What can you do?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He grins sharply. Beelzebub meets his eyes with one raised eyebrow of their own. “Probably more than you’ve ever conszzzidered.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel pauses. Something behind his expression flickers, but he shakes it away again with a toss of his head. “Yes, right, certainly. Come in, come in. We’ve kept the humans away. Nasty inquisitive creatures, aren’t they, Aziraphale?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale’s lips tighten as he follows Gabriel past the metaphysical barrier. “They are persistent, certainly.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel rolls his eyes. “I’ll say! Twelve times they managed to make it past the first barrier! I told it to say<em> Nothing interesting here! </em> and a half dozen of them came in just to see if that was true! And then another six wandered in because ‘nothing interesting’ was precisely what they were looking for, so I had Sandalphon change the wording a bit.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale scowls at the barrier behind them. He thought he’d recognized that unpleasant twang. “Yes, I can see.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel beams again. “And now it works perfectly. Ah, here we go!” He leads the way onto the path at the bottom of the stairs, turning to sweep an arm over the sea assembled there. “Welcome!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale stops and stares, so suddenly that Crowley, at his feet, runs into him. Aziraphale reaches back blindly and grabs for his hand. He has the strongest desire to fold Crowley into his arms and fly away. There are so many. He could never fight back so many— </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Everyone!” Gabriel shouts, either oblivious to his guest’s discomfort or revealing in it, it’s hard to tell. “Hell’s here!” He chuckles and turns back to Beelzebub with a glint in his eye. “Everyone, Lord Beelzebub. Lord Beelzebub, everyone.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dagon glares at Gabriel as though she could drill rock bits through his head. Beelzebub leans back on their heels and raises a single eyebrow. “Hm.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel grins, wide and mean. “Right? Pretty impressive, huh?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale has to swallow and agree. Angels have been called down from Heaven. There are too many of them in the park, more than he’s ever seen in one place at one time since… since… well, since Egypt, most likely. It’s not a pleasant comparison. Angels crowd the pathway. Angels litter the bench. Angels stare down at the freshly mown grass, poke curiously at the bushes, stand awkwardly by the gates. There are a handful gazing at the river and one or two attempting to engage the attention of the ducks. One angel Aziraphale doesn’t recognize is checking over his shoulder, looking furtive as he bends over and tries to poke the water with a stick.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sandalphon and Uriel stand with their arms crossed a little distance away. There’s a table behind them laid down with paper plates and napkins, though haphazardly, as though someone had looked up what a picnic was supposed to look like and gotten it mostly wrong. There’s no food, for one, though any Heaven-conjured meal was bound to be tasteless, as well as gritty and cold. Behind them are the aforementioned streamers, gold letters printed on white silk. They say ‘Welcome Hell.’</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub’s eyes wander over the assembly with nothing more than a partially curled lip. “I’ve seen better.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel glares. “Really?” he challenges. “Is that so?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub crosses their arms. “It is so.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh yeah?” Gabriel taunts. “Prove it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub actually smiles. “Archangel Gabriel,” they purr, lowering their arms and taking a step towards him, “are you asking me to dance?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel blinks and steps back. Beelzebub doesn’t follow. Instead, they raise a hand and, almost casually, snap their fingers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A moment later there’s a rumbling throughout the park. Clumps of dirt begin to shake and rise. Heads appear first and then shoulders, and angels everywhere step back as the Hordes of Hell step onto the grass.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There are too many of them, Aziraphale thinks as he takes a step back, fingers clenching around Crowley’s. He clenches back. There are nearly as many of them as there are angels. He recognizes only a handful among them, but one such is standing at the front of the group. Beelzebub turns to them with a half-grin. “Lord Hastur,” they say, and gesture with a flick of their fingers at the angels. “Meet Heaven. Heaven, this is Lord Hastur.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The angels stare, even the ones in the back. The few by the water turn, their eyes wide, though the one with the stick stares hardest. Hastur only glances at them all. He turns back to Beelzebub. “You called?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub gives him a thin smile. “The Archangel Gabriel has arranged for introductions. Why don’t we show him a good time?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur grins with all his dirt-streak teeth. “With pleasure.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Now hold on,” Gabriel says, stepping forward. Behind him Uriel and Sandalphon tense. “There’s no need to— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur gestures sharply upward. Immediately the park darkens, as though it’s twilight instead of mid-afternoon, and the picnic tables multiply. They’re suddenly groaning with food, piled high with stacks of hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, and lemon pie. Lights appear, strung haphazardly throughout the trees, and music starts, some techno-inspired rock pop that makes every angel — including Gabriel — flinch.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The demons start looking around eagerly. Hatur grins. “Now<em> this,” </em> he says loudly enough to be heard over the music, “is a <em> party.”  </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The angels stand around looking confused. Gabriel glares at Beelzebub. “We were having a nice enough time.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub scoffs. “No, you weren’t.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I thought we were supposed to hammer out details,” Gabriel grits. He has to raise his voice to hear himself over the music. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub smiles meanly. “I thought so, too.” They gesture towards one of the trees now strung with lights. “Shall we?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel whirls around, stiff-shouldered, and stalks through the park. He’s not headed to the tree Beelzebub indicated, Aziraphale realizes, but to the one beside it. Beelzebub grins and follows. Aziraphale makes the pointed decision to ignore them both. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbles. “We should just leave, serve Heaven and Hell right if— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We can’t leave, angel,” Crowley interrupts. He summons a shaky smile when Aziraphale turns to stare at him. “We have to make sure they don’t set off Armageddon again.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale grinds his teeth. “It would serve them right.” But he doesn’t mean it. Crowley knows that, too. He just waits while Aziraphale stands there and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” Aziraphae says finally. “Fine. We’ll stay long enough to make sure no one starts getting choppy. Fair?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Fair,” Crowley agrees. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “‘Choppy?’”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, shut up,” Aziraphale grumbles, and Crowley actually laughs. Squeezing Aziraphale’s hand, he turns and threads them through the crowd towards the picnic tables. On the way, they pass one angel asking about the music and another who seems confused about which part of The Sound Of Music it’s from.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley shakes his head, handing Aziraphale a paper plate. “This is a disaster.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Absolutely,” Aziraphale says, glancing around at the angels and demons peering at each other curiously. “In fact we’d better keep a low profile or— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Crowley!” a jubilant voice announces. Several faces turn towards them in curiosity. Aziraphale groans. “Just the demon I was looking for. Congratulations! Is this your angel?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale turns to see a young-shaped demon with curly hair sticking rather like rabbit ears up from his head. The demon is beaming enthusiastically at Crowley, who only sighs. “Hey, Eric.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So good to see you again! Glad to see the Holy Water didn’t stick. That was a dark day. What a shindig, eh? Much better than Megiddo, believe you me!” He looks around with a wide grin. “So what’s the plan here, are we stabbing them in the back or what?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale starts. Crowley makes a face. “No, Eric, we’re not stabbing them in the back.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eric peers at him. “Really? So, uh, you’re really gonna do it? Mate with an angel?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley shifts his weight, shoulders tensing. Aziraphale hurries to steps in. “Yes, certainly, he absolutely will,” he titters, laying a hand on Crowley’s arm, “though I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.” He sticks out a hand. “Hello, I’m Aziraphale.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eric stares at him curiously and then looks down to Aziraphale’s outstretched hand. He glances at Crowley, who snarls. “You ssshake it,” he hisses, and then stops and sighs. “It’s an Earth thing.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ahh,” Eric says, and gingerly takes Aziraphale’s hand. When nothing sinister happens, he grasps it more firmly and shakes with vigor. “Hello! So good to meet you! I’ve heard a lot about you, you know. Crowley’s adversary! Ha ha! Hey, is it true that you ran him through once with a spear?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale blinks and looks at Crowley, whose eyes have gone wide and who’s nodding quite vigorously. “Ah,” Aziraphale manages, “of course! Mean with a spear, that’s me.” He chuckles awkwardly and mimes carrying something with his other hand. “Watch out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Whoa,” Eric says, his eyes wide. “Wicked. Hey, and is it true that— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, look at the time,” Crowley says hurriedly, grabbing Aziraphale by the arm and spinning him quickly around. “We’ve got to go! Lots of mingling to do, catch you later Eric!” He pulls Aziraphale away from the picnic table. “Sorry, angel,” he mutters low, “I’ll get you some snacks later.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t worry about food, my dear,” Aziraphale says, struggling to keep up. “Who was that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Eric, disposable demon,” Crowley answers distractedly. He’s looking around. “Nice enough kid, but a real blabbermouth. Delayed my return to Earth by a whole week once. Ah, there’s Dagon. Okay, let’s just say hi and then we’ve done our duty, no one starting anything. We can hang around in the back and— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“WHAT’S THIS?” Hastur shrieks. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale stops and spins around. The atmosphere in the park had been settling into a new, confused sort of normal, with angels and the demons keeping a respectable distance but each surreptitiously watching the other. The demons have been gyrating not-quite-in-time to the music still blaring from the invisible speakers and the angels have been standing like statues in small, scattered groups. Hastur had been standing near the middle of the pack, grinning to himself at his self-created chaos the last Aziraphale had seen him, but now he’s gaping at one of the angels, pointing with one finger, almost vibrating with rage. “Uh oh,” Crowley mutters.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur doesn’t seem to hear him. “How<em> dare </em>you,” he hisses instead, glaring with real hatred at the angel. It’s the one Aziraphale had noticed earlier, by the water. “I’ll make sure you pay for this!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ex<em>cuse </em>me,” Gabriel demands, appearing from behind a pack of demons. He stalks forward and they part for him as though he’s Moses. “We said no discorporating today.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No,<em> you </em>said that,” Beelzebub grumbles, annoyed, following doggedly on Gabriel’s heels. “Hastur? What’s the problem?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> “This </em> is!”Hastur spits, spinning out of the way. The confused-looking angel — who’s still holding a stick, Aziraphale notes amusedly — is left in full view of Beelzebub.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub flinches.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale’s amusement evaporates. He takes a step closer. “What? What is it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub is staring at the angel. “What izz thizz?” they buzz in a low, dangerous voice. A swarm of flies materializes from the freshly mown grass. “Zzome kind of trick?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale shakes his head, already stepping forward. “No, of course not,” he says, desperate to defuse the situation. “This is— ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Angel,” Crowley says, his voice low. “No.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What, my dear?” Aziraphale turns back to him in confusion. Crowley is staring beyond him, though, at the angel with the stick, and goodness, if Aziraphale could only remember his<em> name… </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh,” Gabriel says, pulling up suddenly. “Right. So he is yours. “His voice is a little louder than strictly necessary. The music had cut out abruptly, Hastur’s attention clearly elsewhere. “We’d wondered.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub buzzes — a low, angry sound — but it’s Hastur who captures Aziraphale’s attention. He turns on Gabriel, his hands clenched into fists, and there’s something infuriated and broken and hopeful in his expression. “You<em> wondered?” </em> Aziraphale wonders if he even realizes he’s stepped between the angel and Gabriel.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel’s eyes flash, but his tone remains even. “Yes,” he says. He then turns away from Hastur and looks at Beelzebub. Something in his expression changes. “He appeared at the Gates after Armageddon.” He makes a face. “Or, rather, after Armageddon-that-should’ve-been. Not many recognized him. Apparently he hadn’t been seen in some time.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub doesn’t say anything. Hastur growls. “Because he was with us.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley hisses something under his breath. Aziraphale can’t quite hear it, and glances at him, but Crowley only shakes his head. The angel, meanwhile, has put down the stick and is taking slow, careful steps towards Hastur. “I… know you,” he says, frowning. “Or, at least, I think I do.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur spins back to face him with a look that’s at once terrified and full of hope. “Of course you know me,” he says with a voice like sandpaper. “And I know you. I’d know you anywhere.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh,” the angel says, and abruptly Aziraphale<em> does </em>remember his name. He’s First Choir alright, a Cherub, ranked higher than Aziraphale in Heaven, though of course lower than him on Earth. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Eliriyah,” Aziraphale whispers, and it echoes louder than he’d meant it to. Aziraphale realizes only then that not only as the music has stopped but the sky has lightened. Everyone is staring at them. “But that can’t be right, Eliriyah…” His eyes widen. “Eliriyah was lost.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He<em> Fell,” </em> Hastur snarls. He reaches out, hand almost but not quite touching Eliriyah’s arm. “He Fell with <em> us.”  </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh,” Aziraphale says, turning back to Crowley. He understands now. “Adam.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley nods, his expression tight. He’s been feeling guilty, Aziraphale knows, even though he’s hated feeling that way. It was him or them and he knew that. He’d have gotten them both, if he could. He’d tried. He’d missed Hastur, though. “Must’ve been.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t understand,” Eliriyah, no<em> — Ligur — </em>says. “Who am I?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re a demon,” Hastur says, his voice wretched. “Like us. Like me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am?” Eliriyah/Ligur says. He looks down at himself. He’s wearing the same clothes as the rest of the angels who’d never strayed from Heaven, white pants and a white shirt with white trainers on his feet. “I don’t feel like a demon.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastur says something low and takes a step towards him. Eliriyah/Ligur lets him, seemingly unafraid. Beelzebub turns away from them and glares daggers at Gabriel. “You had him all this time and you didn’t tell us?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel doesn’t back down. “Of course I didn’t. One more angel for the war, right?” He almost avoids glancing at Aziraphale and Crowley.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Almost.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Really?” Beelzebub growls, their eyes flickering back and forth. “Is that what all of this has been about?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel lifts his chin. “Of course not.” He crosses his arms. “They were flaunting protocol, cancelling the Apocalypse and exchanging feathers. I had to do something.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did you?” Beelzebub snarls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel shifts his weight. Just a faction, but he does.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub cocks their head. “Really?” they ask. Their voice is thoughtful, low. Maybe a little amused. “You couldn’t just call?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel huffs a breath, looking away. “Would you have taken it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub rolls their eyes and turns away. “Dagon!” they shout. “Turn the music back up!” They look back at Gabriel and glare. “You can apologize to me by getting me a plate of food.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gabriel makes a face. “Ugh,” he says. “You eat?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beelzebub narrows their eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Fine, fine, yes,” Gabriel says. He materializes a plate and stalks back towards the desert table, grabbing Aziraphale by the arm as he goes. “Help me with this. What do they like?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale looks around him as he flails. Angels and demons are still staring at each other but the heavy beat of the music is vibrating again. The sky has darkened and some coloured lights flash. Hastur is still standing close to Eliriyah, talking quietly, while both angels and demons give them a wide berth. Crowley catches Aziraphale’s arm and hurries after him, wrapping Aziraphale’s fingers securely in his own. “Um, yes, sure,” Aziraphale says, keeping his feet as Gabriel pulls him. “Of course.”</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The party goes on for far too long. Once it’s clear that no one’s going to start fighting, Aziraphale and Crowley try to sneak out. They try several times, actually, but every time someone stops them. The first time it’s Beelzebub, introducing them to an important demon, the second time it’s Gabriel, showing off the decorations. Eric pesters them constantly, asking questions, and even Uriel — stiff lipped — stops to pose an inquiry. By the time they manage to shake whoever grabbed them, they’re right back into the thick of it again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The dim light hasn’t helped. Aziraphale is halfway-sure the real sky has darkened and lightened and darkened again, but who can say? All he really knows is that no blood is being spilt, the music remains decidedly bee-bop, both Hastur and Eliriyah have vanished, and Michael even appeared — briefly — in the crowd. The food on the table never seems to decrease and the angels have, at some point, actually started bobbing their heads just-off-time to the beat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, though, the party has to end. Demons wander off in groups of two and three; the angels stay together until Gabriel makes a speech and then they disappear en-mass. Aziraphale and Crowley are left to stagger back to the bookshop in peace. They are each utterly worn out, practically dead to the world, and Aziraphale even sleeps a bit when they collapse onto the couch in the back room together. He wakes up an indeterminable amount of time later, tangled up tightly with Crowley, who’s wound his arms and legs around him as though he’s taking a break from being a snake and decided to try out an octopus.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It feels wonderfully good. Aziraphale breathes in the contact, a contented smile on his face. He does his best not to move and even eventually summons a book, crooking his arm so he can turn the pages and not disturb his demon. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His demon! Aziraphale blushes and looks away. And yet… He is, really. He has been, Aziraphale can admit to himself, for rather a long time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, though, this too shall pass. His infernal — or, rather, ethereal — communication device titters at him, and Aziraphale realizes he has a call.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sadly he’d left his phone in his greatcoat, and the greatcoat on it’s rack. Aziraphale tries to miracle the phone closer but, as with all Heaven-sent instruments, it’s immune to such tampering. With a put-upon sigh, Aziraphale very carefully maneuvers himself out from Crowley’s ouroboros-like hold and tip-toes to his coat. Digging through the pockets he finds the phone and sees the call is from Gabriel. Wondering privately if the Archangel will ever leave him alone, Aziraphale turns and walks to the front of the shop so he doesn’t disturb Crowley. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?” he answers, speaking as quietly as he can. “Gabriel?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Aziraphale! Hi!” Gabriel’s booming voice is as jovial as ever. Perhaps even more so. “Quite the event, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale tries in vain to turn the volume down. “Er, yes. Quite. It went over well, I think. Except for the whole Eliriyah thing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh,” Gabriel glances away briefly, then shrugs. “Better than it might have, at least. Listen, Beelzebub and I had time to hash out some details. I’d like to go over them with you. Now good?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Aziraphale says, turning towards the backroom. “I don’t think so, I’m rather indisposed at the— ” He stops when he sees Crowley levering himself off the couch, reaching for his sunglasses even as he grimaces into his phone. “Oh. Well. I suppose it might be.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good, good, great. I’ll be down in a jiffy. See you soon!” Gabriel disconnects the phone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley has put his down, too. He’s also heaving out a sigh and running a hand through his hair. Aziraphale takes pity on him. “Good morning, my dear, or perhaps I should say, good afternoon. Was that Beelzebub? Would you like some tea?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, angel,” Crowley says, with a tired smile. It’s real, at least, pulling up slightly at the edges. “Yeah and yes, please.” He shakes his head and drops his phone onto the table. “They want to meet. More details to go over. Ugh. I think Beeze missed their calling as a wedding planner.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles as he moves to the kettle and picks through his tea. An earl grey, he thinks. Crowley looks as though he needs the energy. “If they did, they should join forces with Gabriel. He’s coming over to discuss things as well.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley makes a face. “Normally I’d suggest we tackle one and then the other, but Beelzebub wants to meet now and they’re going to my flat.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale nods slowly. “Yes, I rather think they planned this.” He hands Crowley his cup. “Do you feel safe meeting with them alone?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley sighs and folds both hands around his cup. “I don’t know. I want to say no, but that would be a lie. Right bastards they both are, through and through, but they haven’t stabbed us in the back over this yet.” He glares into his tea. “Which could be the set-up, I suppose.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I don’t think so.” Aziraphale sighs. “They’ve put too much effort into this. We can keep our phones on us, certainly. And I feel better meeting Gabriel here, at the bookshop, and you Beelzebub in your flat. Home territory, as it were.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, making another face. He tosses back his tea and stands. “Okay. I’ll head over there now. Call me the</span>
  <em>
    <span> instant </span>
  </em>
  <span>you get any bad feelings, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale agrees. “You, too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Crowley mutters. He stalks around the couch, pauses awkwardly in front of Aziraphale, and then just hands him his cup and walks to the door. “See you in an hour, angel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale says, belatedly. He has the feeling of a chance missed. “Certainly.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley turns in the doorway to give him a wry smile, and then he’s gone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale shakes himself and spends the next few minutes cleaning up. He doesn’t go to quite the effort he had the other day but does fold the blanket he keeps on the back of the couch, wash their cups, restock the kettle, and banish the worst of the smells. He also lets the bad feeling that hovers around the shop go. Just as soon as he’s done the bell over the door dings and Gabriel walks in.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Aziraphale,” he says, smiling. “Hello. Good to see you again.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Surprisingly, he looks almost as though he means it. “Hello, Gabriel. What’s the occasion this time?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, same as before, really, wedding stuff.” Gabriel takes his time meandering to the counter. He eyes a few of the older editions, pokes at a module Aziraphale has hanging from one shelf, and actually picks up the compass Aziraphale had adjusted the other day. “Quite a lot to get ready, really.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is there?” Aziraphale asks, unable to resist raising one eyebrow. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. I’ve been rather left out of it by this point.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel chuckles awkwardly. “Yes, well. Beelzebub and I talked things over.” He clears his throat. “Actually we were… wondering… if you’d want to include an extra element.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighs. “What is it this time, Gabriel? We’re already doing a feather exchange, and the True Form demonstration. What else do you want to include? Bungee jumping? Some flying practice?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A ring exchange, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale stops and stares at him. “A what?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel grimances and looks away. “Well, it’s just— you and Crowley, you know. You like it here, right?” He makes a face. “On Earth, I mean. You’re going to stay here, that’s the whole point of this, and Beelzebub thought, well.” He makes a point of rolling his eyes.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “They </span>
  </em>
  <span>thought you might like to do an exchange of rings. That’s a symbol that means something to humans, apparently.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“To some humans, yes,” Aziraphale says, still surprised, “but what does that— ?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel shakes his head and steps forward. “Let me see your hand,” he says. When Aziraphale, rather confusedly, shows it to him, Gabriel points at Aziraphale’s ring. “This. It’s yours, right? It’s the one I gave you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks down at the ring. He’s had it as long as he’s been on Earth. It hadn’t been bothered by his discorporation. “Upon my appointment to Principality, yes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. And it’s blessed, right? That is, I blessed it before you left Heaven.” He heaves a sigh. “Well, I’m saying that I could un-bless it. If you wanted.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale still feels two minutes behind. “You could what?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel shrugs awkwardly and looks away. “I mean, you could buy a ring if you wanted, of course you could, and that’d be fine, but Beelzebub said something about ‘something old, something new’. I didn’t quite understand what they meant, but they’re seeing Crowley right now about the ‘something new’ bit and I thought, well, exchanging rings. You have a ring. It’s old.” He glances back at Aziraphale. There’s something unfamiliar and uncertain in his gaze. “Right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Aziraphale says, feeling faint.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Except that it’s been blessed by an Archangel,” Gabriel goes on, “and that’s not the kind of thing that goes away.” There’s a trace of pride on his face, because of course there is, until his eyes flicker and it vanishes. “Except that means you can’t give it to your demon, because I blessed it. So. I could un-bless it. If you wanted.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“... Yes,” Aziraphale says finally. He’s smiling, he realizes. He feels suddenly lighter than air. “Oh Gabriel,</span>
  <em>
    <span> yes! </span>
  </em>
  <span>That’s a wonderful idea!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel blinks back at him, and then he smiles briefly, too. It’s a real smile, though. “Oh. Good. I mean,” he shrugs again, “Beelzebub thought of it and they aren’t actually, uh, all that stupid or anything.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, yes, of course,” Aziraphale says with a laugh in his voice. He lifts his hand and slides the ring off his finger. He’s had it for so long, it’s practically a part of him, but it comes off easily. Crowley will love it. “Here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel takes the ring gingerly. “Do you, ah, have something? A dead tree or something. This is going to leave a mark.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale borrows a plank of two-by-four from the hardware store across town. He lays it on his desk and Gabriel places the ring on top of it. Aziraphale eyes it nervously.“Have you actually un-blessed anything before?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm? Oh, yeah, I practiced this morning,” Gabriel mutters, staring down at the ring. Aziraphale can feel him opening more eyes than the ones he can see. “Didn’t go so well.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Aziraphale says, taking a step towards him. “Well, then. Maybe then I should— ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel puts up a hand to hold him back. “Nah,” he says, never looking away from the ring. “I figured it out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, anxious. “Because, as you said, the ring is very precious to me and— ” He’s cut off when Gabriel makes a short, decisive sort of nod and then pulls down sharply from Heaven. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a</span>
  <em>
    <span> crack </span>
  </em>
  <span>not unlike lightning. Aziraphale finds himself having to look away from a moment, the sharp tang of ozone flooding his nostrils as the</span>
  <em>
    <span> bright-still-cold </span>
  </em>
  <span>essence of Heaven momentarily spills over into his shop. And then the smell and the sound clears, and there’s a faint ring of char around the untouched bit of metal, still sitting prettily on the hardwood as though nothing untoward just happened at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says happily, his voice hushed. He reaches for the ring and this time Gabriel doesn’t stop him. He looks rather pleased with himself, actually, though a little done-in. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.” He can feel the difference immediately, the bright burn of Heaven erased as though it had never been. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” Gabriel says, and once again sounds like he means it. “I think he’ll, ah, really like it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think he will,” Aziraphale says, beaming unreservedly at his former boss. The one and only time he can ever remember doing so. “Thank you very much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel leaves after once again — though more politely this time — refusing tea, and Aziraphale fits his ring back onto his finger. It doesn’t feel quite the same any more, but he doesn’t want Crowley to get suspicious. Aziraphale is intensely curious about what he and Beelzebub have been getting up to but he doubts very much that Crowley will tell him, just as he has no desire to tell Crowley about this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley does neatly avoid the question when he gets back to the bookshop. “Oh, nothing much,” he says, eyes darting back and forth from behind his sunglasses. “Just chatted. Mostly. Nothing dangerous at least. You?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, much the same,” Aziraphale says, non-committedly, and then “Oh!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley immediately looks up. “What? What’s wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, nothing, sorry, dear,” Aziraphale assures him. “It’s only just, in all the press, I’d quite forgotten to ask Gabriel what date they’d set.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Date?” Crowley asks, still not entirely uncoiled from the start Aziraphale had put him in. “What date?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“For the wedding,” Aziraphale says, blushing slightly. “I, er, quite forgot that we hadn’t set one, and with Gabriel and Beelzebub rather taking charge of things I thought one of them might have, but I forgot to ask.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, the date,” Crowley says, slouching back against the couch. “Ah, no problem. Beelzebub mentioned it to me, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, perking up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley shrugs, not quite looking in Aziraphale’s direction. “Yeah. Mentioned they hadn’t set one yet, and that they’d better get to it soon. I thought, well, moving things along, that is, I thought maybe the Saturday after next?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He says it so utterly casually that Aziraphale speeds quickly through his mental calendar. “Oh!” he says as soon as he’s figured it out. “Crowley! That would be wonderful!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley slouches a little more. “Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Aziraphale says happily. “I would love to get married on our anniversary.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches upward. “Yeah?” He’s glancing at Aziraphale now out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, it might not be. Hard to say, really. Time was rather unpredictable back then.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps, but still. I think Saturday October 28th will do nicely.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley slides his sunglasses down his nose and smiles. “Yeah, angel. I think so, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter Nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The morning of the wedding dawns clear. Aziraphale doesn’t expect to be nervous — he’s getting married to Crowley, after all, his best friend, and the only being in the entire world he can ever imagine marrying — and yet he is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’d spent the night apart; Crowley had planned on drinking at the bookshop and had actually gotten them a case of rather intriguing looking wine, but then Beelzebub had shown up with Dagon and a much-less-angry-looking Hastur. They’d tried to invite him to a pub-crawl. Crowley, not wanting to go, had argued until Gabriel, Uriel, and Sandalphon had shown up.</span>
  <em>
    <span> They’d </span>
  </em>
  <span>arrived with bibles, several pens, and a philosophical discussion regarding the placement of verbs in Genesis. In the end, Aziraphale had gone off with the demons to drink while Crowley had argued passionately in favour of the oxford comma to the Archangels. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time Aziraphale had been dropped off in the wee hours of the morning, all of the angels except Gabriel had gone and Crowley had been asleep on the sofa. Beelzebub had rolled their eyes and picked the demon up, not even seeming to notice the weight of him, and said they’d bring him back to his flat. Aziraphale, still drunk, remembers nodding vaguely. He’d also mumbled something to Gabriel — who’d been hunched over his bible, mumbling and making notes in the margin — before making his way up to his bedroom. It had taken far more effort than usual to sober up. Eventually he’d managed and had collapsed on his bed afterwards, spent from the effort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Waking up alone in his neglected bedroom, Aziraphale stares at the ceiling.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Why </span>
  </em>
  <span>is he nervous? Yes, standing up in front of Heaven and Hell will be difficult, but he and Gabriel might actually be, well, not ‘getting along,’ perse, but things between them aren’t overly antagonistic. And he doesn’t believe Crowley’s hyperbole, but he actually rather does like Beelzebub quite a bit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ceremony itself doesn’t frighten him, either. The ring exchange should be lovely, the feather gifting even more so, and the True Form demonstration, well… Aziraphale blushes. He might enjoy that</span>
  <em>
    <span> too </span>
  </em>
  <span>much, quite frankly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah. And there it is. This is his</span>
  <em>
    <span> wedding day. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s getting married. He’s getting married to</span>
  <em>
    <span> Crowley.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And Aziraphale… Aziraphale realizes that he wants this. So very badly. And for all that he knows Crowley cares for him, has chosen him, he doesn’t know if Crowley would have actually</span>
  <em>
    <span> married </span>
  </em>
  <span>him if it weren’t for this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he needs to know that. Aziraphale sits up in bed, struck by the realization. He needs to know — he</span>
  <em>
    <span> has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know — before he gets up in front of all those people, before he declares before Heaven and Hell — before Her — that he chooses Crowley forever of his own free will. He needs to know if Crowley chooses the same.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale trips himself in his haste to get out of bed, legs tangled up in the moth-eaten covers he hadn’t bothered to repair the night before. He needs to see Crowley, he needs to talk to him, he needs to find out if he—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door bursts open before Aziraphale can reach for it. “Gooooood morning, sunshine!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale stops — shocked — and stares. Gabriel is standing in his doorway and he looks ridiculous. His hair is done up in curlers, there’s a towel draped over his shoulders, and he’s wearing crisp-white underwear and a t-shirt that says ‘Heaven’s Best Boss’. Uriel is standing behind him. She is, thankfully, fully dressed, though her shockingly white four-piece suit is nearly as much of an eyesore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gabriel doesn’t wait for Aziraphale to get over his shock. “Up and at ‘em!” he exclaims. “Today’s the big day!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, rather,” Aziraphale manages, getting his voice back. “Actually, that’s exactly my point. I have something rather important I need to do before we get going this morning and— ”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you do!” Gabriel agrees. He snaps his fingers and suddenly he’s wearing a four-piece suit that matches Uriel’s, complete with a skinny cream tie. The towel is gone and his hair is slicked back over his head. “You have to get dressed, do you hair, and oh my, we never talked about accessories, you know a good watch goes a long way, and then of course there’s the photographer, and— ”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait, wait, Gabriel.” Aziraphale holds his hands up in front of him. “Getting dressed won’t take a moment, what do you mean about my hair, and a</span>
  <em>
    <span> photographer? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Why— ?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For posterity!” Gabriel exclaims. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the perfect angel, he did all your surveillance work, great guy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale feels faint. “Surveillance work?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a sudden pounding on the stairs. Aziraphale winces. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Sandalphon cries. He appears in the doorway a moment, a garment bag in both hands. “I’ve got it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Finally!” Gabriel exclaims, spinning to face him. “I worried you wouldn’t— Oh,</span>
  <em>
    <span> Sandalphon,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” His voice drops into an awed hush as he pulls the wrap off the bag. “You’ve outdone yourself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sandalphon grins, showing off his golden cross. “Knew you’d like it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Uriel peers over Gabriel’s shoulder, looking reluctantly impressed. “Not bad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale stares in horror at the skinny white tuxedo suit. “Oh no. Absolutely not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What? No! It’s beautiful!” Gabriel tries to snap his fingers. Aziraphale, panicking, blocks him. Gabriel narrows his eyes and throws the power of an archangel behind his will. Aziraphale chokes as he’s suddenly engulfed in constricting fabric. “There!” Gabriel exclaims, summoning a mirror and standing proudly behind Aziraphale. “Perfect!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale gags. He looks awful. The harsh white colour washes him out, the jacket is far too tight, and the tie is physically choking him. Very deliberately he snaps his fingers and changes the white to cream, the jacket to tails, the vest to blue, and the skinny tie to a lovely, subtly tartan, cravat. He keeps the shoes, which are actually rather comfortable, and breathes in and out to adjust the fit. “Better.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Oh, very well. Here.” He waves a hand over his suit and alters its colouring to match, and then does the same for Sandalphon and Uriel, who both curl their lips but don’t actually protest. Gabriel looks them over critically. “Not bad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale has to agree. “Rather dashing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gabriel turns toward him, expression suddenly gleeful as he rubs his hands together. “And now, let’s do something with that hair.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes a step back, raising a hand protectively to his head, just as another voice carries up the stairs. “Gabriel? Uriel? Are you there?” It’s Michael. “What’s taking so long? The photographer’s here!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gabriel leaps into the air, Sandalphon scurries, and Uriel rolls her eyes. Aziraphale would be tempted to join her, except he finds himself yanked off his feet and practically thrown down the stairs. As he descends a mite more carefully, he realizes with a sinking feeling that he may not be able to see Crowley before the ceremony after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t. The morning passes in a frenzied bustle. After photographs — during which Michael avoids his eye, Sandalphon smiles too much, and Aziraphale finds himself distracted by how oddly familiar the photographer is — they bustle out of the shop and into a limo.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a ridiculous expense, not that Aziraphale thinks Gabriel actually paid for it, because there are only four of them. “Honestly,” Aziraphale says as they all shuffle in, “we could have walked.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, we couldn’t have,” Michael argues tonelessly, looking out the window and not at Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Aziraphale asks. He looks over her outfit. She’s the only one among them not wearing a suit, though her skirt and blouse have shifted colour to match the rest. “I suppose it wouldn’t be comfortable to walk in those shoes.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her lips twist, but it’s not an irritated expression. Or not only, at least. Sad, perhaps? “I can walk in heels just fine. It’s not that. The venue’s too far away.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale blinks. “Too far?” He looks around at Gabriel. “Aren’t we going to the park?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gabriel affects a nonchalant expression. “No, actually, we aren’t.” He waves to the windows, which show that they’re passing St James’s now. “Michael booked us another location.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks curiously at Michael. She’s sitting on the long seat near the front, closer to the driver, and she has her phone in her hands. She’s avoiding his gaze again. “Alright,” Aziraphale says, slowly. He guesses it’s too late to complain, anyway. “So long as Hell is aware.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course they are,” Gabriel assures. “Don’t worry about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale does worry about it, but his fears drop away when the limo pulls to a stop. “Oh my,” he says, pushing open the door and stumbling out of the car. He plants his feet on the grass and stares. “What?” he asks. “How?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Michael steps close behind him, her phone clutched protectively in her hand, an unusually conflicted expression on her face. “Do you like it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale can only gape. It looks so different. The sky is blue, for one thing, where last time it had been a gloomy grey, and the grounds are full instead of empty, chairs set up where there had been nothing but dry grass. There are angels and demons milling about, wearing white and black and making awkward small talk, but the thing that really captures his attention is the bandstand. It’s been strung with lights and decorated with bunches of white flowers. “I do like it,” he breathes. “Oh, Michael, it’s perfect.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hard angle of her shoulders relaxes slightly. “Good. I was hoping — that is, I wanted — I thought you might like it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did you know?” Aziraphale asks, but then the answer comes to him. Of course. “The photographer. You were watching us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not all the time,” she defends, and then shifts her feet and stops. “Yes,” she admits, meeting his eyes for the first time. “It started small at first, here and there, and then more often in the days leading up to the Apocalypse. I reviewed the footage after.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I see,” Aziraphale says. He swallows. “So you know. You heard our argument.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Michael shakes her head. “No, I didn’t — we had no audio, it was visual only but I didn’t — ” She stops and bites her lip. “I thought, from your expressions, and your body language, that you’d argued.” She laughs hollowly, looking away again. “I was actually happy about it, at the time. I thought you’d finally come to your senses.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hadn’t,” Aziraphale whispers. “I’d never been so far.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Michael nods slowly. “I understand now that’s how you feel.” She runs a shaking hand through her hair. “I also realize — after what we did, after what we</span>
  <em>
    <span> tried </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do — that I was wrong. That at least some of what I believed is wrong, at least. Except if some of it is wrong, does that mean that</span>
  <em>
    <span> all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it is— ?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She breaks off, her voice catching. Despite everything, Aziraphale can’t help but pity her. “This has been a very difficult time for you, hasn’t it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her breath catches in a laugh. “Yes!” She shakes her head. “Except you’ve had a hard six thousand years, haven’t you? And probably before then, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It hasn’t been all bad,” Aziraphale says slowly, watching her carefully. He’s never known where he stood with Michael. He still doesn’t, but he wonders if it might be a better place, after this. “I had good company, after all.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Michael catches her breath. Her voice is almost wistful. “You really do love him, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Aziraphale says, honestly. It comes out True. “I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Michael nods. “Right. Well, I won’t say I understand, because I don’t, but I’m starting to think that might be because I don’t understand love as well as I thought I did.” She exhales. “Anyway, I thought that maybe you’d like to have the wedding here, if you could.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do,” Aziraphale agrees, joy filling his heart. “Oh, I do. Thank you, Michael. It’s perfect.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles at him. It’s small, but it’s real, and that’s what matters. “You’re welcome.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gabriel comes up from behind them, then. He’s holding a boutonniere. It’s a black rose, edged in red, with lush green leaves and small white flowers. “Almost forgot, here you go.” Aziraphale stays still and lets Gabriel pin it on him. He’s wearing the reverse, a large white rose on a bed of dark greenery with tiny red flowers. Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon are wearing the same. “Ready?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks out over the crowd. Celestials are moving towards their seats, angels in white on the right, demons in black on the left. Hastur and — Aziraphale really will have to ask Eliriyah/Ligur which name they prefer, or if they’d like to choose another — together off to one side. He can’t see Crowley, but he knows that he’s here, and he hopes doing this here, at the bandstand, will be enough. What’s important is that they’ll be together after this. Forever bound, by human, angel, and demon custom, too. “Yes. I am.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes his place to the right of the bandstand. A hush falls over the crowd as music starts to play. It’s Wagner’s Lohengrin, obviously, but also clearly not. Interspersed with the familiar chords of ‘here comes the bride’ are the deeper, throater notes of Hell, and the higher, trilling notes of Heaven. There are other notes, too, something that reminds Aziraphale of Ur, and a section that recalls the glory of Edo. He forgets it all entirely the moment Crowley steps out from the crowd.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks... breathtaking. He’s wearing black — of course he is — but it’s a long, flowing thing that could as easily be a dress as a jacket, with a red slip of colour underneath. His hair is done up just a shade longer than has been usual for him for the past year, festooned with flowers in both white, black, and red. He’s wearing his sunglasses but even as Aziraphale watches, he grasps them with shaking hands and pushes them up onto his head. His eyes, when Aziraphale meets them from across the bandstand, are shining.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, and then he’s walking forward, in front of the assembled legions of Heaven, and Crowley is doing the same, long legs carrying him past the hordes of Hell. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Angel,” Crowley breathes. They meet in the middle. They reach forward together, at exactly the same time, and grasp each other by the hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look beautiful, my dear,” Aziraphale says. He can’t look away from Crowley’s eyes, and never wants to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Me?” Crowley huffs, disbelieving. “Did you look at yourself?” His hand squeezes. “You look amazing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Aziraphale manages. There’s a cough from behind him and Aziraphale remembers their audience. He doesn’t let go of Crowley’s hand, though. He never has to again. “Shall we?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley takes a deep breath in. He looks nervous. “Angel…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale waits for him, holding his hands. “Yes, dear?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Before we do this, I just want— ” Crowley sucks in another breath. “I just wanted to— ”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, my dear?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just wanted to say— ” Crowley swallows. His eyes are wide and his hands— Aziraphale realizes with a start that his hands are shaking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Crowley. What is it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I— ”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gentlemen,” Gabriel starts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s lips curl back in a snarl. Fortunately, Beelzebub, who’s standing behind Crowley, rolls their eyes and makes a flicking motion in the archangel’s direction. Gabriel gives a muffled “Mm!” but shuts up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale turns back to Crowley. “It’s okay,” he assures him, squeezing his hands gently. “It’s fine. Whatever it is, I’m here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s still shaking. “And will you be?” he asks. He swallows hard. “Even after this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh yes,” Aziraphale breathes. “After, because of, despite— all of it, Crowley. I promise.” Aziraphale squeezes his hands again, and realizes in that moment that he doesn’t need to</span>
  <em>
    <span> ask, </span>
  </em>
  <span>actually. He needs to say. Crowley has always done so much for him, has pushed and pulled and supported him, and it’s been Aziraphale who’s turned him away. It’s his turn to put himself out there. “Crowley,” he starts. He takes a deep breath. “My dear, I want you to know that, however this might have begun, today, here, with everyone present, I choose you.” Aziraphale looks up and feels more than hears the words come out True. “I love you. I choose you. Now, and forever, and always.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley looks like he might faint. “You do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I do. I should have told you that before, I should have</span>
  <em>
    <span> chosen </span>
  </em>
  <span>you before. I’ve loved you for so long—  I was scared, too scared to tell you, and yet too in love with you to let you go. I’m sorry, darling. If it’s not too late, if you’ll accept me now, I’ll choose you today. I’ll choose you forever.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course I’ll have you,” Crowley whispers. His voice is shaking. “I love you, too, angel. I didn’t— I never— ” He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand and takes a deep breath. “I choose you, too, angel. If you’ll have me, I’ll be yours. Today, forever, always.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words are True. Aziraphale closes his eyes, breathing in the feeling. “Yes,” he exhales. “Yes, I will. Absolutely. Forever.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, now,” Beelzebub says. There’s a smile in their voice. “That’s ten times better than the vows Gabriel wrote.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to hear Gabriel’s scowl. “It wasn’t!” Then he sighs. “Okay, fine, maybe it was. Might as well do the ring exchange now, then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale lights up. “Oh, may we? That would be wonderful.” He beams at Crowley. “My love?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley sucks in a breath. “Ngk. I’m— going to have to get used to that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles at him. “It’s True.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Crowley says, looking slightly dazzled, “that’s why.” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Ah, rings. Yes, good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale grins and indicates the bandstand. “Shall we?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley smiles back. “After you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “How about together?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley swallows and blinks. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Together. Together sounds good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Moving as one, they turn and step up into the bandstand. Aziraphale can’t help but remember the last time they were here, and yet everything has changed. They’d been running that day, each in their own way, from the powers of Heaven and Hell. Today those same forces are here to witness them, to see and support and cheer them on in their marriage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marriage! It makes Aziraphale tear up, to think he finally has a chance to tell Crowley how much he loves him, and before anyone can say anything, Aziraphale slides off his ring and goes down on one knee. He isn’t sure if this is how human ceremonies usually go, but the romantic comedies Crowley pretends not to enjoy alway include a scene with one person on their knees, and they missed that bit earlier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” Aziraphale begins. “Crowley, I love you for who you are, what you are, why you are, always. If this is something you would choose, if you would choose me, I offer you this ring as a symbol of my love for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He holds up his ring. Crowley, wide-eyed, reaches for it. “Isn’t this—? Aziraphale, this is your Principality ring. I can’t take this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can,” Aziraphale assures him, “if you want. It was un-blessed by an archangel.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Crowley says. He looks away from Aziraphale for a moment to glance at Gabriel. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale can hear Gabriel shifting his weight. “You’re alright,” Gabriel says. “Not just for a demon, but. In general. You’re alright. And he loves you.” He can hear Gabriel’s shrug. “That’s enough.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He does, doesn’t he?” Crowley turns back to him with something like wonder in his eyes. He reaches for Aziraphale’s hand. “Yes, angel, yes! I love you. I’ll proudly wear your ring.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes the unblessed circle from Aziraphale’s hand and slips it onto his finger. It fits perfectly. Aziraphale stares at it, almost disbelieving. Despite everything — despite</span>
  <em>
    <span> everything — </span>
  </em>
  <span>Crowley is really choosing him. Choosing this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess it’s my turn now,” Crowley says, a nervous twist touching his lips. He tries to pull Aziraphale up, but Aziraphale doesn’t want Crowley below him, not ever, and so he stays where he is. With a huff, Crowley shifts his dress-suit and kneels in front of him, putting them at level. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Angel,” he starts, shakily. His eyes are shining. “Aziraphale. I love you. I’ve loved you since before time began, since Eden, since the first moment you told me you gave your sword away.” (There’s a muffled “What?!” from Gabriel and then a stomp, like someone stepping on a foot.) “I never thought I’d get to do this. I was sure, for the longest time, that you’d never want to, but if you do — if you want — if you really want</span>
  <em>
    <span> me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then I offer you this ring.” Worry tugging slightly at his bottom lip, Crowley lets go of Aziraphale’s hand to reach into his inside pocket. He pulls out a ring.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale gasps. It’s beautiful. It’s snakeskin</span>
  <em>
    <span> — Crowley’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>snakeskin — except it can’t be, because when Aziraphale touches it, it’s hard as stone. “How?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s lips twitch in a smile. “Beelzebub helped. It’s, well, it’s something new.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers. He picks the ring up and slides it onto his finger. It fits perfectly. “Yes, my love, yes. I accept your ring. I’ll wear it always.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley looks at him dazedly. “Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles at him. “If it is, I never want to wake up. Not if it means I get to have you. My Crowley, my darling, my everything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Angel,” Crowley breathes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale can’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> not </span>
  </em>
  <span>kiss him then. He reaches over with shaking hands. Crowley, once again, meets him halfway. Moving together, they kiss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a perfect first kiss. The angels gasp. The demons shout. Someone whoops and someone else hollers. Aziraphale and Crowley start, and then tip their foreheads together and chuckle. “I forgot about them,” Crowley says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Me, too,” Aziraphale admits. He looks up into the eyes of his love. “Ready for the next part?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley takes a deep breath. “Yes. I think so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale grins and shifts to his feet, pulling Crowley up with him as he goes. “Crowley,” he begins, loud enough to be heard over the crowd, “you’ve already gifted me with one feather, and then with a second, plucked with your own hands. If you would bond with me, my love, would you accept a feather of mine? I would give it to you here, in front of all our brethren, so all might know and acknowledge the special place of love I have for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley swallows, his eyes huge. “Yes, angel — Aziraphale. Yes, please. I would accept anything of yours.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles. With a shimmy, he unfurls his wings. It is, as always, a joy to have them open in the physical world. “Take this, then, and know I give it out of love for you.” Reaching back, Aziraphale twists his right wing. He finds his longest primary, his most perfect feather, and holds it for a moment, feeling the warmth of it. Then with a quick, sharp motion, he plucks it, breathing in sharply to hide the jab of pain. A drop of blood drips from the end. A blood feather. He would gift Crowley with nothing less.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley takes it with trembling hands. “Angel.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale curls his hands around Crowley’s, wrapping his fingers around Aziraphale’s feather. “It’s yours, my love. Yours always, as am I.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley exhales. “Okay,” he says. “Uh, I just repeat what you said, I guess?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles at him. “If you want to, my love.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley squeezes his hands. “I do.” He clears his throat. “Aziraphale,” he starts, and then, louder so the crowd can hear, “Aziraphale. You have gifted me with three feathers now, the first an age ago, the second when you asked me to marry you, and the third now, with the promise of marriage complete. Would you accept a feather of mine? I would give it to you here, in front of all our brethren, so all might know and acknowledge the special place of love I have for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes. “Please. I would accept anything of yours.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley smiles. It’s his turn to spread his wings, the deep, dark void of them breathtaking as always. Crowley reaches back and selects a primary from his left wing. He pulls it sharply and comes loose. There’s a trickle of ichor at the base. “Aziraphale,” Crowley says, holding it out to him and wrapping his hands around Aziraphale’s when it’s clear his hands are shaking too much to hold it on his own. “It’s yours, my love. Yours always, as am I.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale clutches the feather tight. “Thank you,” he whispers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley quirks a smile. “Pretty sure it’s me who should be thanking you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles up at him. It’s watery, he knows, but he doesn’t think Crowley will mind. Not this once. “No, we’re doing this together. The way we should have done everything. I love you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley smiles back. His own eyes are suspiciously bright. “I love you, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The crowd cheers. The angels are clapping, the demons stamping their feet, and above the noise rises a sharp command. It’s Beelzebub. “Kiss him, you fool!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale laughs and leans forward. Crowley grins and meets him. Two halves of the same whole, together now, they kiss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Except it isn’t over yet. The sound of stomping feet intensifies. Aziraphale blinks and looks away from Crowley. The demons are shuffling, moving now in tandem. The beat of them is becoming a roughly organizing, pulsing sound. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The angels are looking around confused, even Gabriel, who’d agreed to this in the first place. Somewhere far in the back, Hastur stands up, Eliriyah/Ligur at their side. “Fight!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demons roar. “Yes!” they cry. “Fight!” There’s a louder roar. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks back at Crowley, who’s grinning. “Are you sure?” he calls out to the crowd. “He might beat me!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demons roar. It’s a good-natured sound, loud and raucous, with plenty of grins. “You can take him!” one voice shouts. Aziraphale looks to see that it’s Eric, the bunny demon. He’s stomping his feet as loud as the rest. “Go for it, Crowley!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley laughs again. “What about it, angel?” He turns back to Aziraphale and cocks a grin. “Do you trust me enough to fight me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ohh,” Aziraphale breaths out, grinning back at him. “Yes, my love. And I bet I can beat you, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley laughs. “You think so?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah!” Hastur cries. “Fight!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demons cheer. The angels still look nervous, even Gabriel, but Aziraphale doesn’t have the time to waste on them. Crowley is backing up, giving himself room, and Aziraphale does the same. The bandstand isn’t large, but it’s big enough for this. “Catch me if you can, then, angel,” Crowley teases. With that, he transforms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale laughs and follows him into the shift. His body shrinks and his waistcoat compresses. He flings his arms up and they’re already wings, catching the air beneath his feathers as he launches himself into the air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The angels around him gasp. The demons howl, a curiously joyous sound. Aziraphale ignores them all and focuses on his demon. Crowley is still much better at this than him. Not only is he faster to transform, but he’s already going for the roof, crawling up the wall of the bandstand. He’s wound his muscular body around a pillar, red belly darting around a pot of white flowers. Aziraphale hoots and rises above him, darting down with his sharp beak to nip at Crowley’s flickering tongue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a teasing motion. Crowley whips his head back, hissing, and Aziraphale laughs. It comes out more like a throaty call in his current form. Crowley winds himself tighter around the pillar, reaching for the roof. Aziraphale dips in again, nipping this time at his belly, and Crowley shakes his tail. Abandoning the roof, he launches himself at Aziraphale. His muscular body catches Aziraphale about the middle. Thrown, Aziraphale puts out his wings. He can’t keep his elevation, though, and they tumble out of the bandstand together, landing in the grass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Angels and demons step back, giving them room. Crowley is the quicker, winding himself tighter around Aziraphale even as he rears back to strike. Aziraphale twists awkwardly, his wing catching Crowley in the face. Crowley hisses, and Aziraphale laughs at the look on his face. Crowley manages to narrow his eyes despite not having eyelids and then drops his head to focus on his next move. Aziraphale tries to turn onto his feet, but Crowley strikes, slithering quickly up Aziraphale’s body, darting his tongue out to tickle the underside of Aziraphale’s beak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale squawks out a breath and twists, wings beating hard. He manages to startle Crowley and throw him back, and the grip Crowley has about his middle loosens. Aziraphale, half way into the air now, catches Crowley with his talons before he can fall. Careful of the sharp edges, Aziraphale holds Crowley close as he beats his wings to lift them into the air. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley twists and turns, trying to get away, but Aziraphale holds him tight. He dips his head, scoring his beak along the underside of Crowley’s throat. Crowley opens his mouth, gasping, and then turns and bites Aziraphale on the chin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale shrieks in surprise. His talons open and Crowley drops free. Faster than blinking, Crowley twists, wrapping his tail around Aziraphale’s wing before he can fall, and then climbs up onto his back. Aziraphale hoots as Crowley settles in there. He does a quick turn in the air, only half-heartedly seeing if he can throw Crowley off. He doesn’t actually want Crowley to fall. Fortunately, Crowley curls into the hollow between Aziraphale’s wings and doesn’t shift so much as an inch. Aziraphale hoots and takes off higher into the air. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s glorious. The wind in his feathers, the park rushing by, Crowley curled up securely on his back. It’s pure joy. Aziraphale gives into it, taking them up and around the bandstand and then over and across the park. Crowley nestles into his feathers and Aziraphale flies them in another circle around. When they loop back to the angels and demons, Crowley lets his tail hang loose. Aziraphale clicks his beak in acknowledgement, and skims over the heads of the crowd. He hears a “Hey!” from Eric as Crowley taps him on the shoulder as they fly by. Aziraphale hoots and Crowey hisses a laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The maneuver seems to awaken Crowley’s mischievous side. He moves his tail to start tickling Aziraphale under his wing. Aziraphale tries not to laugh and mostly fails. Past the angels and demons, now, he keeps their elevation low, skimming over the grass. Crowley is relentless, tickling underneath Aziraphiale’s feathers, and Aziraphale twists, trying to nip him. He misses and Crowley laughs, and goes this time for his middle. He has to loosen his grip to do it, though. Aziraphale turns suddenly, flipping himself right over so he’s flying on his back, and Crowley gives a startled hiss and falls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t too far to the grass. Aziraphale flips himself back over and dives after Crowley. His demon is still sprawled in the lawn, not hurt but slightly dazed, and Aziraphale plows to a stop beside him. It’s not his most elegant landing, perhaps, but he doesn’t dwell on it as he covers Crowley with his wing and nips at the underside of his jaw with his beak. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley hisses another laugh, breathless this time, and flips himself over. He tries to crawl up, back onto Aziraphale, attempting to get his tail around him, but Aziraphale is wise to his tricks now. He shifts his wings and rolls on his side, pinning his demon to the earth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley hisses again, but it’s a more breathless sound this time, and his eyes are wide. His tongue darts in and out. Aziraphale, operating on some instinct he doesn’t understand, touches his beak to the underside of Crowley’s jaw. Crowley stills. After a moment he locks eye contact with Aziraphale and then slowly — deliberately — raises his chin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sucks in a breath. Crowley is— Crowley is</span>
  <em>
    <span> submitting </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him, and Aziraphale’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. From this angle Aziraphale could rip out Crowley’s throat, tear open his belly, blind his eyes and leave him howling behind. But he’d never do that</span>
  <em>
    <span> — could </span>
  </em>
  <span>never do that — and Crowley knows it, which is why he’s offering in the first place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s an intoxicating display of trust, and Aziraphale loves him for it. Bending forward, he absolutely, with every iota of his being,</span>
  <em>
    <span> needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>to kiss him right now, and he transforms into his human shape to do exactly that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley doesn’t hesitate to follow him, in fact he’s faster at it than Aziraphale is, so by the time Aziraphale’s finished Crowley is already back in his human shape. He’s still lying on his back in the grass, though, and his eyes are still bright, and his chin is</span>
  <em>
    <span> still up </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath, gathers his demon in his arms, and kisses him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demons around them whoop. Actually, quite a few of the angels seem to be joining in, going by the high pitched sounds. Aziraphale doesn’t actually bother checking. He just holds Crowley close and kisses and kisses and kisses him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley, just as enthusiastically, kisses him back. He winds his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, twists his legs over Aziraphale’s hips, and presses his mouth to Airaphale’s so hard it half feels like he’s trying to climb his way down inside of him. Aziraphale brings a hand up and cups his jaw, then opens his mouth, and</span>
  <em>
    <span> oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tongue kissing. Yes,</span>
  <em>
    <span> yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they should have been doing this</span>
  <em>
    <span> ages </span>
  </em>
  <span>ago.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They might very well do this forever. In fact, that’s a lovely excellent idea. He’s quite irate when Beelzebub interrupts them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well now,” the Prince of Hell says, “that was quite the chase. I think you caught him, Aziraphale. You can let him go now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale breaks off the kiss to look up and growl. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley, laughing, only waves them away. “Fuck off, Beeze,” he says cheerfully. “I’ve got time to make up for.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beelzebub, unfortunately, only rolls their eyes. “You’ve got five minutes, mice-for-brains, and then I’m coming back to kick you. The party’s just getting started.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s eyes narrow. “Please tell me there won’t be dancing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beelzebub only smirks. “What do you think?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ugh,” Crowley complains, winding himself that much closer around Aziraphale when Beelzebub wanders off. “Whose plan was it to make this a party?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pretty sure it was Gabriel’s,” Aziraphale admits, threading a hand between Crowley’s neck and the grass, feeling the shiver through Crowley’s form when his grip tightens slightly. He noses underneath Crowley’s jaw, inhaling the delicious scent there. “Though it’ll doubtlessly be more fun with demons present.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Doubtless,” Crowley gasps, and then gasps again when Aziraphale kisses his collar bone. “Satan’s balls, do that again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale grins and obliges him, and only remembers that they’re essentially writhing in the grass, making out like teenagers, when an angel stumbles over them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ugh,” Crowley complains, sitting up just enough to get an elbow underneath him. “What’s a married couple got to do to get a little privacy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale grins at him. “We’re</span>
  <em>
    <span> married.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley grins back. “We</span>
  <em>
    <span> are.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>His smile gains a hint of nervousness. “No getting out of this now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale reaches down for Crowley’s palm and winds their fingers together. Their rings tap against each other, a solid reminder and a promise, both. “No, there isn’t, not for either of us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s smile turns shy. “Don’t think that was ever a concern of mine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale just</span>
  <em>
    <span> has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to kiss him again. So he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter Ten</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, though, they do have to get up. The park is getting more and more crowded, with angels and demons both, and as they start to wind through the crowd Aziraphale can see everyone is more intermixed than they’ve ever been. Hastur and Eliriyah/Ligur are the most obvious pair, arms around each other as they argue over the music, but Beelzebub is teasing Gabriel by the food table and Michael is leaning over so Dagon can say something in her ear. Everywhere around them angels and demons stand together, sometimes with obvious wariness, sometimes with less. Aziraphale shakes his head, amused by it all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He stops being amused the minute one of the demons catches sight of him and grins. “Speech!” the demon calls, and then again, a little louder. “Speech!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no,” Aziraphale tries, stepping back. “No, please.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But an angel nearby has perked up. “Yes!” they agree. “Speech!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh,” Aziraphale groans. It’s clearly too late. A half dozen other voices have picked up the call. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Speech! Speech! Speech!”                                                                                   </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale turns his head into Crowley’s shoulder and buries his face there. Crowley, the fiend, only laughs. “What? Cat got your tongue?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no, it won’t be</span>
  <em>
    <span> us </span>
  </em>
  <span>giving a speech,” Aziraphale warns, glancing from his husband — his husband! — to the bandstand. Sure enough Gabriel is already grinning and waving a microphone into being. “Heaven isn’t that merciful.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley follows his gaze and groans. “Oh, fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale nods grimly. “Indeed.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Welcome everyone!” Gabriel says loudly into the mic. “Thank you for coming!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The crowd cheers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, well, I have to say, this is not how I expected this day to go. We came together today — we know we came together today — to witness something unheard of. A wedding, a joining, of an angel and a demon. Our two biggest traitors. Yes, that’s right, give it up for Aziraphale and Crowley!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The angels clap loudly and the demons stop their feet. Aziraphale and Crowley wince. Gabriel grins at them and goes on.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We understand why they did it now, of course, why they got in the way of Armageddon. It was irresponsible, and foolish, and downright annoying,” — the demons boo and the angels mutter, Gabriel puts a hand up and goes on — “but it happened, and that’s all we can say about that. If there’s one thing Heaven understands, it’s love.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale grumbles under his breath. Crowley, the only one near enough to hear him, chuckles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Except,” Gabriel goes on, still speaking into the mic, but more slowly now, “I’ve learned that maybe that’s only half of the story.” There’s a hint of Truth seeping into his voice. “I see now that we don’t have the monopoly on love that I thought we did. Hell, for all it’s degenerate nature, filled with fiends and deadly foes,” — Eric, from somewhere in the back, pumps a fist, “Hell yeah!” — “gets it too. They understand love. I guess it’s fair to say that Aziraphale, terrible angel though he is, was the first one to realize that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s grip tightens. Aziraphale puts a hand on his arm to steady him.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Aziraphale,” Gabriel goes on, finding him in the crowd, “you did it. I saw it myself today and I know it’s real. You saved the earth for this, somehow, and it pissed me off something awful, but it’s done. You’re here, you’ve got your demon here, and I can only say that I wish the best for you, buddy. I truly do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale swallows, touched despite himself. “Thank you, Gabriel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel nods and waves his hand, summoning the scroll they’d first worked on weeks ago. Grasping it by the golden side, Gabriel touches his index finger to the bottom line. A burst of lightning strikes the page. When the light fades, Gabriel’s personal sigil is etched onto the scroll. He rolls it back up carefully. “Heaven stands by it’s agreement, Aziraphale. You and Crowley have nothing to fear from us.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The angels cheer. It’s a louder sound than they would have made a week ago. Aziraphale feels strangely proud of them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beelzebub steps out from the crowd. Stalking over to the bandstand they snatch the scroll from Gabriel’s hand. “Give me that.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel only smiles at them, a private, knowing sort of smile, and hands them the microphone too. Beelzebub takes it with a hard glare. “Crowley,” they start, still staring at Gabriel, but turning now to face the crowd. Their voice is pitched to carry. “You miserable son of a bitch.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The demons laugh. Aziraphale twitches but Crowley, still holding his hand, only grins. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You were, though, you know,” Beelzebub goes on. They’re looking at Crowley now, beetle-dark eyes intent. “You might have gotten results, and you may have been our most successful field agent, but you were always only just doing your job. The only time I ever saw you really happy was when you were concocting some idiotic plan. That’s what I thought all of this was.” Beelzebub waves a hand. “You were so happy, I figured it had to be some convoluted plot. But it never was, was it? You were just, honestly,</span>
  <em>
    <span> happy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It took me a long time to believe it.” Beelzebub’s gaze never lets up. “I believe it now. You clearly love the angel, and the angel clearly loves you, and you’re both so goddamn happy now it’s sickening. So, fuck you for fucking up Armeggdon, but congratulations, too.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They snap their fingers and the scroll unrolls again. Holding it by the charred side they snarl something at the page. A swarm of flies erupts from their sleeve and overruns the parchment. When they clear, Beelzebub’s sigil is revealed, etched carefully onto the bottom line. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjoy,” Beelzebub says. “Hell officially agrees to leave you alone.” They snap their fingers and summon a fine red box. The scroll tucks itself neatly inside. The moment it does, the lid snaps closed and the entire ensemble disappears from the bandstand and reappears in Crowley’s arms. The crowd cheers. Beelzebub ignores them all and stalks away, throwing the microphone to Dagon as they go.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley is left staring down at the box. He looks as though he’s tearing up. Aziraphale squeezes his hand and leans their shoulders together. Crowley looks over at him and smiles. Aziraphale smiles back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ahem,” Dagon says, drawing their attention and peering down at the microphone as if she doesn’t trust it. She probably doesn’t. “I won’t make this long.” Someone in the crowd whistles. Dagon throws them a glare. “I just have one thing to say and I’m not saying it alone.” Looking off to the side, she catches Michael’s eyes and jerks her head. “Get up here, feathers. Don’t make me look stupid all by myself.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale blinks as Michael inclines her head and steps out from the crowd. She leans over to murmur something to Dagon that the microphone can’t pick up. Dagon glares at her, furious, but there’s a hint of something else in her gaze. “Fine,” she growls. “You tell them, then. This was all your idea.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael takes the microphone Dagon has thrust into her face. “But you’re the one who researched the human ways of arranging for it, oh Lord of the Files.” There’s the faintest hint of teasing in her voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon only snarls at her. Michael raises an eyebrow and turns to the crowd. “Aziraphale, Crowley,” she begins. “I know we’ve singled you out a lot already today. Too bad, that’s the price of getting married.” The crowd laughs. Aziraphale finds himself smiling, and Crowley squeezes his hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve stood up in front of all of us and pledged to spend the rest of existence together. We appreciate that. What Dagon and I were wondering was, what comes next? After all, neither of you are particularly welcome in Heaven or in Hell. Crowley’s now on the Roll Call and Aziraphale’s on Hell’s Books, but despite that, your true place is here on Earth. We thought you should have something, then, that’s fit for you both, to begin your married lives together.” Looking at Dagon, she raises her hand. The two of them snap their fingers together. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale gasps as a stack of papers suddenly falls into his arms. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley, still holding the box, leans over to look. His mouth falls open as he stares, and drops lower as his eyes catch on the first page. “Angel…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They bought us a house,” Aziraphale says, shocked. He’s reading the deed on top of the pile. It’s been stamped by the official seal of the registrar of the South Downs. The second page has a number with a lot of zeros behind it, and then the phrase PAID IN FULL. “Our own house.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not just a house,” Crowley says, flipping through the stack with one hand. “They bought us the acreage around it, taxes paid from now until the end of the century, and the land— ” he blinks, his expression watery again “ — the land includes a greenhouse.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks from Crowley back up to Michael and Dagon. “I— ” he starts. “I don’t know what to say.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon tosses her head. “Then don’t say anything. It’ll sound less stupid that way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley swallows heavily. “Thank you.” His voice, at least, is achingly sincere.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael looks back at him. “You’re welcome,” she says. Her smile is quiet, but the words are True.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hastur rolls his eyes and storms up onto the bandstand. “Too much talking! I thought this was a party?” He snaps his fingers and the music starts up again. It’s loud and pounding, but with a careful beat, and a woman’s voice sings high and lovely. “Let’s dance!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale laughs and tugs the box out of Crowley’s hands. He very carefully sends it, the deed,  and the assembled papers, to the safe behind his desk. Then he extends his hand. “Shall we, my love?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley looks at him. The devotion in his eyes is clear to see. It’s enough to make Aziraphale catch his breath, not only because Crowley is looking at him like that, but because he’s doing so openly, with their fellow angels and demons around. And yet, still, he manages to tease. “Are you sure, angel? You know demons can’t dance.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale teases back. “We’ll be in good company, then. Watch out for Hastur’s elbow.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley laughs and steps closer to him. He does, in fact, have to duck a little. The dance floor is quickly devolving into a hazardous zone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Besides,” Aziraphale goes on, more softly now. “I think you’ve gotten that turned around. It’s angel’s who can’t dance.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley catches his hand and brings his fingers to his lips. “Really?” He twirls Aziraphale around and manages to trip over his own feet when he does. Aziraphale laughs and catches him before he can fall. Crowley grins up at him. “I think you’ll find we aren’t so different after all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale glances around. Behind them Hastur is, indeed, flailing off-time to the music. Michael is tapping her foot, Beelzebub is ignoring them, and Gabriel is debating over the food. “We never were.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley puts his hand on his cheek and kisses him. Aziraphale holds him close and kisses him back. Eliriyah/Ligur wolf-whistles. Sandalphon rolls his eyes. Dagon shouts, “Get a room!” and Eric calls, from somewhere in the back, “You already bought him one!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley and Aziraphale break apart, laughing. “They did,” Aziraphale chuckles. “My God, they really did.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Crowley says. He’s still smiling. “They are family.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale glances at the crowd. They are. They’re strange and dangerous and they tried to kill him once. Worse than that, they tried to kill Crowley. They’re still celestials, though, ethereal and occult both, and they aren’t trying to kill them now. The scroll will remain locked and secure, but they don’t need it anymore. They might be on their own side, but Heaven and Hell are behind them, now. More than that, both sides seem honestly happy for them and that, after six thousand and one years of miracles, might be the most miraculous of all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose they are,” Aziraphale says, staring up at his husband. “Family.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley kisses him again and then does something absurdly complicated with his hips. Aziraphale laughs. He himself tries — and fails — to move in time with the music. Instead of laughing at him, Crowley — his demon, his love, his</span>
  <em>
    <span> husband — </span>
  </em>
  <span>holds out his hand. Aziraphale takes it, and smiles when Crowley wheels him in. He looks down at him, and Aziraphale tips his head up. Moving together, they kiss. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The angels and demons cheer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Family</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Aziraphale thinks, and kisses his husband again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a funny old world. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>~ The End</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>Five Years Later</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>“Angel!” Crowley calls walking in the front door. “I got strawberries!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims. He drops the potato he’s been peeling in the sink and rushes to the door. “Wonderful! I thought Sharon had already sold the last of her plants?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley winks at him as he toes off his shoes. Boots, really, high-ankled lovely things, fashionable but also quite practical for digging in the dirt. “I got her second last one. Bought it, and the last one, too.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Excellent!” Aziraphale cheers. “Well done, my love. I do so look forward to fresh strawberries in the spring.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley shrugs, though there’s a twinkle in his eye. “That’s assuming I can get them to flower, of course.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale gives his husband an affronted glance. “As if a single thing you’ve planted has not.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley laughs and bends forward to give him a kiss. “From your mouth to the garden’s ears, angel. I’m going to head round the back and plant them right away, got that tub I cleaned out yesterday. Sharon said to be careful with them or they tend to spread.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale nods and gestures to the kitchen. “Go ahead, there’s another hour at least before dinner. Are we having company, do you think?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley makes a face. “Noticed that, did you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My dear, I could hardly not.” The South Downs is a human place, filled with families and farms and the scent of the sea, and any attention from either Above or Below sticks out like a sore thumb. “It’s Hastur and E’Ligah, I think.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Crowley admits. “Ran into them coming back from town.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did you mention dinner?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes,” Crowley sighs. “They said they’ll think about it.” He makes a face. “Would have said yes right away if you’d been the one to ask.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale miracles his hands clean and tugs Crowley closer. “I think Hastur’s forgiven you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t need forgiveness, ‘m a demon,” Crowley mutters. He gathers Aziraphale in his arms, anyway. “Don’t think he should, really. I never would have forgiven him if it were you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Perhaps,” Aziraphale says softly, “but it wasn’t, because I’m fine. And E’Ligah is fine now, too. Or did they change it again? They were still trying on names when we saw them last year.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley shrugs and presses a kiss to the skin behind Aziraphale’s ear. “Not sure, you can ask them when they arrive.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale turns his head to kiss him back properly. “I thought you said they hadn’t committed?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley rolls his eyes. “They didn’t, but you know they’re going to show up anyways.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale frowns. “They are?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley grins. “Yeah. Might’ve mentioned you were cooking once or twice.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale laughs and steps back so he can see the mess of dinner he’s making. “Did you? I’d better make extra then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley sneaks in another kiss. “Better. Salad with that, right? Do you want some fresh tomatoes from the garden?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, please,” Aziraphale says, “and cucumbers, too, if you can find some.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“For you, angel, the world,” Crowley declares, miracling on his boots back on before stepping out the kitchen door. Aziraphale catches a glimpse of the riot of colour the backyard is this time of year — flowers and greenery and herbs and vegetables — before it closes at his back.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale smiles fondly at his husband as he goes, then turns to glance out the windows at the front of the house. They undertook several renovations when they moved into Eden Cottage.  Removed most of the interior walls on the ground floor, for one thing, so Crowley could have his open space. Aziraphale sometimes bemoans the lack of books — though they’d transformed the second floor into what is basically a maze-like warren of a library — but the open concept means that from the kitchen he can see out of the large, picture-sized windows at the front of their home. From there it’s easy to look down the street to the abandoned cottage at the end of the lane. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not that it’s truly abandoned, of course. The rest of the village thinks that it is. They’re also sure it’s a ramshackle old building, not even interesting enough for children to explore, and best to be forgotten. That’s what the denizens of Heaven and Hell want them to believe.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In truth, the building functions as a sort of oft-rotated summer home, or what Crowley refers to as a ‘timeshare.’ Some member of their extended family is usually staying in it at any given time. It was Beelzebub and Gabriel last month, Uriel a few months before that, and Michael and Dagon a year or so ago. Apparently it’s now Hastur and the being currently calling themselves E’Ligah. Aziraphale always knows when a new occupant arrives, and usually invites them to dinner.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>More often than not, these days, the invitation is accepted, and Eden Cottage has seen a number of high-profile visitors. Gabriel, once, even tried the food.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale shakes his head as he goes back to peeling potatoes. Crowley will be in from the garden, soon. They’ll set the table and turn the porch light on for their visitors, raid the wine cellar and eat the pie Aziraphale cooked this morning for desert. After dinner they’ll wish Hastur and E’Ligah a pleasant evening, walk them to the door, and then be alone together. Maybe they’ll make love, maybe they’ll read, maybe they’ll open another bottle of wine and spend hours reminiscing over all the years that have gone before.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Whatever they do, they’ll do it together. That’s the promise — the choice — that they made and keep on making, to spend this second chance they’ve fought for together. Aziraphale finishes his potato and dips his hand into the bucket for another. Crowley’s ring on his finger glints in the afternoon light. Smiling, he gets back to work.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>~ The End (again)</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>